


Fumes and Ghosts

by almanera4, Tarpeia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Astral Projection, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Canonical Character Death, Community: grindeldore, M/M, Nurmengard, POV Albus Dumbledore, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, Seer Gellert Grindelwald, Triwizard Tournament, True Love, Yule Ball (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanera4/pseuds/almanera4, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia
Summary: In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 35
Kudos: 69





	1. Before the Coup

The calm before the storm: this was the only way to describe the magic in the air. The towers of Hogwarts were basking in the morning sun. One would have claimed they were breathing: every time the waters of the loch rippled against the shore, the rhythm called deep breaths to mind. Even the Whomping Willow’s silhouette stood dark and still in the distance. Awake or asleep, though, the castle did not lose its sentience; magic thrummed in its grounds like a pulse under skin, more turbulent than ever. The signs of unrest had been present since June: the prophecy of a Seer come true, the symbolic resurrection of a man believed dead, the marked solemnity of the centaurs, the Dark aura imparted by the Dementors… Magic left traces, and Hogwarts retained everything.

Albus pressed a palm against the metal gate. It was vibrating with protective wards, which had formed a solid if transparent barrier around the school. In spite of his preoccupation, he smiled—coming to Hogwarts at the end of summer was a wondrous experience the passing years could not dim. It could be compared to rousing a dear friend from sleep and watching him enjoy the new day.

The moment the gate slid open, Fawkes released his shoulder to take flight. Having made Hogwarts his home, the phoenix found it difficult these days to linger in their spartan London flat, which had witnessed some of their loneliest years. Albus followed in his wake, his cloak gliding over the gravel path. The wind never quite abated here; chilly and penetrating, it attacked every inch of exposed skin. While the headmaster had come to consider it a part of the beautiful landscape—a pleasant part, indeed—he found himself wondering whether his guests would feel at ease in this wilderness. The remarkable events ahead were the reason he was returning to his office much earlier than usual.

For a few seconds, the Entrance Hall offered a forlorn sight, unlit and deserted as it was. Then, in unison, the torches sprang to life, and the cheerful spirits of the Fat Friar and Sir Nicholas came floating to welcome him back. The truth was, the castle had not been uninhabited since its construction: apart from a number of house-elves and the countless small creatures it housed, it served as a refuge as much as a trap to its ghosts. Perhaps was this the school’s Darkest aspect. Intent on greeting the more withdrawn ghosts at their convenience, Albus proceeded towards the stone gargoyle that guarded his office. The walls were pulsating with life at this point, the portraits’ chatter rising over the creak of the moving staircases. Peeves’s cackle echoed from a nearby nook, where an enchanted suit of armour had stationed itself.

“It’s good to see you, headmaster,” the gargoyle said upon Albus’s touch.

“I’m happy to see you too, old friend. Let this year’s password be… Cockroach Clusters.” The corners of his mouth twitched; he loved alliteration.

His office looked as though he had never departed: by virtue of the elves’ thorough care, it was aired and spotless. A rather sleepy chorus of salutations poured from his predecessors’ paintings. Behind the window, Fawkes’s fiery shape was streaking gracefully across the sky; as if in response, a tentacle broke the shimmering surface of the lake, waving, it seemed, at the new arrivals.

Albus turned back towards his desk. He could tell, even without the outer signs, something was brewing, though this presentiment could not be rationally explained. What troubled him in particular were the ominous rumours from Albania: word had it sinister magic had recently been perpetrated there. According to a more solid report still, this was where a witch had disappeared without a trace.

“Five minutes until the scheduled meeting with Bartemius Crouch,” a voice rang out behind him.

“Thank you, Everard.”

With a sigh, Albus emptied his briefcase of parchment. Letters, and more letters: from the Ministry, from the heads of the two competing schools, from Arthur Weasley (Harry, it announced, had safely arrived to the Burrow and would be attending this evening’s Quidditch World Cup—Albus hoped the boy would enjoy every minute of it), and from Sirius Black. That one, delivered by an exotic bird, confirmed the young man was safe, and as such, it had to be concealed with special care. Fortunately, Barty Crouch did not possess a magical eye; as far as Albus knew, this unique artefact still belonged to Moody, who would sooner die than share its secrets.

The embers hissed in the grate, and the fire glowed green. A figure materialised in the hearth, revolving rapidly. Barty Crouch had barely changed since tragic circumstances had robbed him of his family: he remained just as brisk and terse, determined to prove himself the master of any situation. Albus, who had personally seen the consequences of Crouch’s ruthlessness, despised the man. Negotiating with those he detested, however, had become an inevitable part of his routine, and his experience was vast enough to allow him to maintain a pleasant façade when he would have liked nothing more than to hex the Ministry official.

"Good morning, Barty," he said, coming forth.

"Dumbledore." Crouch shook the proffered hand. "I trust you've had a good holiday. As you know, we need to finalise a few details concerning the Triwizard Tournament."

"Please have a seat." Aware his visitor could not be any less interested in courtesies, Albus sat down at his desk. "I have everything ready. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"I’m not here to drink tea, Dumbledore,” the other wizard declared irritably. “We need to discuss the means by which the foreign delegations will access the grounds. You have been in correspondence with Olympe Maxime and Igor Karkaroff, correct? I presume they wish to resort to their customary modes of transportation."

"Quite so." Crouch’s impatience with their meeting was amusing; did he find it physically intolerable to breathe the same air as a suspected sympathiser of Dark wizards? Albus kept his expression straight. "Madame Maxime has informed me her Abraxan horse-drawn carriage will land at Hogwarts during the evening hours of October 30th. It is equipped with a variety of Extension Charms and will host the Beauxbatons party for the duration of the Tournament. Igor Karkaroff is bringing his candidates on the same evening on board of the Durmstrang Ship, which will be anchored in the Black Lake. I've assigned two divisions of house-elves to tending to their needs."

Crouch gave a curt nod. "We’ll need to temporarily lift major enchantments from the Hogwarts grounds. I will, of course, have Aurors positioned here for as long as it takes for the delegations to settle in. Which brings me to another point." He leaned back. "Security has been rather slack at Hogwarts, wouldn’t you agree, Dumbledore? Or do you happen to have an idea how a dangerous yet wandless Dark wizard such as Sirius Black could repeatedly invade the area and escape?"

They had reached the true motive behind this meeting more swiftly than Albus had anticipated. This explained why, instead of summoning him to the Ministry, Barty Crouch had arranged for this conversation to be held inside the castle, where Sirius’s flight had occurred. Not only was it a show of power, a reminder that Albus’s territory was his to hold only for as long as the Ministry tolerated it; it was also an attempt at clarifying the mystery. Fudge may have easily believed Sirius had escaped by means of unprecedented Dark magic; Crouch, on the other hand, was not deceived. And he regarded it as a slight. Sirius had been _his_ prisoner to condemn, _his_ Dark wizard to destroy.

"None at all, Barty," Albus replied. "The Minister and I resorted to all the measures of security we had at our disposal. Yet far from yielding results, the Dementors tried to attack two innocent students."

"The very same students who had found themselves alone with the said criminal without your knowledge? The Minister told me as much. It only emphasises my concern, Dumbledore." Crouch narrowed his eyes. "How come three students were able to leave the castle after curfew, unsupervised and vulnerable? Is it not your duty as this school’s headmaster to ensure students' safety?"

"My understanding is that they were distressed about the hippogriff's impending execution and desperate to offer Hagrid their support,” Albus said calmly. "In so doing, they disregarded his express orders, as well as mine. I have always considered my responsibility towards students' safety to be my greatest priority, Barty. But I cannot control wizards' emotions."

For an instant, Crouch simply gazed at him. There was no avoiding it: a painfully vivid memory formed in Albus’s mind. He pictured a younger, more powerful, more belligerent Bartemius Crouch towering before him in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—Crouch from nearly thirteen years ago, at the peak of his career, and bent on sending Sirius to Azkaban.

"You, of all wizards, would know how to twist the Minister's perception,” Crouch objected. “I’ve no doubt this is what you said to appease him. But you and I both know you have always expressed sympathy towards Dark wizards. It doesn’t matter to you that Sirius Black betrayed his best friends, excluding the werewolf, before murdering a dozen innocent Muggles and who knows how many others." He smiled mirthlessly. "But for the sake of the argument, let us assume those students were out of your control. Why wasn't anyone left on duty to guard Sirius Black while one of your professors was detaining the Minister? "

"It was nearing midnight,” Albus stated. “It felt excessive to wake a member of staff when the office holding Black had been carefully sealed and had its window locked. Besides, he was only alone for a few minutes. As for Severus Snape ‘detaining’ the Minister—no one in the world wishes to see Sirius Black captured more vehemently than Severus."

The grim smile widened. It contained a hint of something feral, something insane almost—a familiar smile.

"Ah, yes, Severus Snape. Another Dark wizard you have personally vouched for. Curious, your habit of providing excuses for former Death Eaters. And how does it so happen that Black’s escape produced no commotion? Someone _must_ have heard something. Even if the hour was too late for the staff to patrol, I’d have surmised ghosts were on duty. And why, of all places, did you choose to detain Black in such a remote office while waiting for the Dementors?"

It was patent Crouch had reverted to his ingrained interrogation practice. Had he been authorised to, he would have dragged Albus to the Ministry without batting an eyelash. The headmaster maintained a smoothly courteous tone. _Never lose your temper_ was one of his most precious learnings.

"Professor Flitwick was out that evening, and his office was perfect in my view: it’s situated on the seventh floor and has a single narrow window, which makes it inaccessible from outside. In addition, it was disconnected from the Floo Network after several cases of magical malfunction. To answer your former questions, the ghosts were patrolling as usual, and no commotion was heard until we discovered he was gone."

More inquiries descended in a rapid succession, all designed to catch him off guard.

"You are considered by many the greatest wizard of our time, are you not? How do you reckon he escaped? Surely you have an idea."

"That title is both exaggerated and uncalled for.” Having never fully recovered from the event that had earned him this accursed reputation, Albus made a conscious effort to keep his memories at bay. "My ideas are many, each as unlikely as the next. In retrospect, I wouldn't exclude a powerful Disillusionment Charm."

Crouch tilted his head to a side. "So you are suggesting he might have just walked out. How could he possibly have managed such a powerful spell without a wand? Don't you think it far more likely he got help? Tell me, Dumbledore: who could have helped him? Remus Lupin?"

"Barty, you know Remus Lupin suffers from lycanthropy,” Albus pointed out softly. “It was full moon. I’m positive no one at Hogwarts helped Sirius Black."

"Not even Harry Potter?” Crouch paused, his expression shrewd. “Did you leave him alone at any given time? The Minister told me he was under a powerful Confundus Charm. This, combined with—from what I’ve heard—his tendency to disobey authority makes him a very strong suspect."

"Confundus Charm or not, Harry Potter was placed under Madam Pomfrey’s supervision as soon as we left the hospital wing." The headmaster leaned in. "If Sirius Black is capable of a wandless Confundus Charm, what is to suggest he couldn’t cast other spells wandlessly too?"

"He could have stolen Potter’s wand.” There was veiled venom in Crouch’s voice. "Or any other student's, for that matter. I don’t suppose you thought of checking wands, though it would have been an obvious thing to do."

"Had this been the case, Barty, a wand would have been found on Sirius Black. But the children’s wands were accounted for, all of them unmarked by illegal spellwork.” Albus went on, his intonation deliberately light. “I hope you are not about to propose that we start treating all the students as potential suspects and collecting their wands."

It was fortunate indeed looks could not kill. Behind his glower, Crouch was weighing his options, searching for more loopholes. Still, the message in the headmaster’s words had not gone unnoticed: Hogwarts was not a part of the Ministry’s playground.

By another stroke of luck, Barty Crouch had remained unaware of the hippogriff’s failed execution. The Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had thoroughly hushed this embarrassing snippet of information, ashamed of having caved in to Lucius Malfoy’s pressure to execute the innocent creature. He was even ignorant about Miss Granger’s Time-Turner. This secrecy between the Ministry departments could not have been more welcome, or it would have taken Crouch seconds to put two and two together. In the end, he was forced to change the topic, which he did brusquely.

"There is one more thing we have to discuss. Dragons will be imported to Hogwarts for one of the tasks."

Albus registered the irony of the fact that this was equally related to magical beasts.

"Hagrid will be delighted to hear it," he commented merrily. "The Forbidden Forest has an enclosure that can be cleared for this purpose."

"The Ministry will ensure that no member of the student body or staff comes to harm,” Crouch promised, cutting him off. "And I dare say we’ll see more of each other this year. As one of the judges, I will see to it that every rule is followed and that no wandless wizards can come and disappear as they please. I count on your cooperation, Dumbledore—we are clear on this, I hope?"

For the first time that morning, a steely glint lit the sky-blue eyes. "We want the same thing, Barty: justice, safety, and order. This is why I sought out Alastor Moody, who very kindly agreed to come out of his retirement and teach the students to protect themselves. I’m not thrilled at the prospect of receiving Igor Karkaroff at Hogwarts—a man who, as you know, has never fully desisted from his old ways except for selfish benefit, and who is single-handedly responsible for the spectacular decline in Durmstrang's attendance, resources and success rate. I am hopeful your presence on the panel of judges will contain him."

"I will contain him,” Crouch asserted. “For all we know, he might try to help Black for the old times’ sake—we can’t exclude it. You are advised to report any suspicious activity to the Ministry. I hope you understand that, Dumbledore."

He waited for a sign of assent before adding, just as Albus had known he would, “Sirius Black didn't escape without help. And how well I remember your passionate advocacy of Dark wizards. If it hadn’t been for Severus Snape’s outburst in front of the Minister, I wouldn’t have excluded him either. Dark wizards don’t change, and as far as Death Eaters go, they had a common goal. I sometimes ask myself whether _your_ goal might be identical."

Albus arched an eyebrow. His feeling of amusement had resurfaced, but it was not without an undercurrent of hatred. His ears were ringing with the memory of a younger Crouch’s voice:

“Stay out of this, Dumbledore. Black is a member of your organisation, and your partiality for the Dark Arts is notorious.”

“Precisely, he is a member of the Order of the Phoenix,” Albus had protested, ignoring the fascinated stare of Crouch’s young assistant. “I’ve known Sirius Black since he was a first year, and I’m telling you, these crimes do not match his convictions. If you only granted him a regular trial, we would find out exactly what happened.”

“His guilt is undeniable, and so is your bias. Stay away from my department.”

“Barty, I know Sirius—he wouldn’t have betrayed his friends if his life depended on it. You are mistaken in judging him by his ancestors’ beliefs. Please, let me talk to him.”

“Talk to him? _Talk_ to him? What, do you have more instructions to pass?” Crouch had advanced then, his eyes bulging in icy rage, a condemnatory finger pointed at Albus. “What has that Order of yours achieved in its ten years of existence? Nothing! Every victory over the Death Eaters we have claimed to this day is due to our Aurors’ courage. I don’t know what games you are playing, Dumbledore, but I am _not_ ignorant of your long-lasting defence of Grindelwald. Now another Dark wizard has gone on a killing rampage, and you demand to talk to him. Get out! This is your last warning. Or I will make sure your visiting rights to Nurmengard are revoked. Don’t think I won’t receive my colleagues’ full support—they are not happy with you.”

The threat had descended with the suddenness of a lightning bolt, and it had stolen the ground from under Albus’s feet. He had observed the heinous wizard in front of him, conscious the menaces were earnest, and fury had flooded him, along with helpless loathing. He had left.

But Barty Crouch was no longer powerful. He would never harm innocent wizards again, let alone threaten the person Albus loved most, and he was far from oblivious to this fact. Not without willpower, the headmaster suppressed his glee.

"Lord Voldemort strived to seize control over our community and establish a pure-blood regime with himself as the ruler. I, Barty, am neither a pure-blood elitist nor an opportunist desperate for a whiff of power. By the Death Eaters' standards, I’m nothing more than a half-blood _parvenu_ who has climbed to a position of importance thanks to a small measure of magical talent and a larger measure of cunning. My sympathies are not absolute either. It is our choices that define us, not our predispositions."

Crouch glared at him. It was difficult to tell what incensed him more: Albus’s frame of mind, his popularity with the masses, or his influence over the Minister, who practically ate out of his hands. As if to avoid a direct conflict, the wizard abandoned his line of questioning, focusing instead on his schedule.

"In the past, the Triwizard Tournament was known to result in participants’ deaths. All the Ministries involved in the competition agree it should be open to wizards and witches of age, not younger. It will be your responsibility to prevent any underage students from submitting their names. How will you tackle this?"

Albus contemplated the matter. "An Age Line will keep the younger students from accessing the Goblet. I will add enchantments to verify the candidates’ true age and identities in case they should resort to the Ageing Potion or ask their older friends for a favour.”

"Good." Crouch retrieved a folder from his briefcase. "My colleagues will be in touch with you to arrange the creation of a maze on the Quidditch pitch. The third task, which is still under discussion, will consist in overcoming magical obstacles to reach the final prize. Neither Olympe Maxime nor Igor Karkaroff know the details, and the school boards would like to keep it this way, or the temptation will be too great—we don’t want any cheating at the Tournament. The only reason we have informed you about the dragons and the maze is because you are the host; as such, you are requested to maintain the secrecy. I’ve brought a contract to this effect.”

The sheet of parchment floated onto the desk, followed by a black quill. Upon inspection, Albus found it to be a customary binding agreement that required his signature in blood. Without a word, he took the quill and signed; the cut on his hand healed instantly. Pocketing the contract, Crouch got to his feet.

“One last question, Barty. I’ve been meaning to ask whether any news of Bertha Jorkins has been heard,” Albus spoke, standing up as well.

He received a piercing, unsettled glance in response.

"No, no news of her yet. Good day to you, Dumbledore. We are done here for now."

"I hope you’ll enjoy the World Cup. Good luck."

Frowning in thought, Albus watched the other man throw a handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace before vanishing in the green flames. Then, as if shaking himself from a spell, he reached for his cloak. He would reprise his duties the following morning—no one would miss him while Quidditch was at the forefront of most wizards’ minds. There was but one detour to be made: the kitchen.

The house-elves were excited to see him back early. He made enquiries of their health and, after exchanging a few anecdotes from summer, expanded on the main challenges the new school year would bring. Their leader, a literate elf by the name of Lompy, was to receive a detailed agenda from Mr Filch in early September, as was the custom. Albus left the spacious room with a hefty food basket in hand, ready to head out of the castle.

The first person he came across was Hagrid, absorbed, it appeared, in arranging creature eggs inside a wooden crate. Cheerful and curious as ever, his boarhound Fang leapt from behind the box to come and sniff at the headmaster, his tail wagging.

“Professor Dumbledore, sir!” Hagrid approached; he was beaming.

“My dear Hagrid, it’s good to see you. How has your summer been?” Albus gave him a one-armed embrace, which was cautiously yet warmly returned.

“Very good, sir, i’s bin good. How are you? This is goin’ ter be an excitin’ year.”

“A busy but memorable one, I hope,” he smiled. “I’m worried, though: you are the only teacher who hasn’t taken a break from this place. It’s not right. There is still time for you to go on a trip if you so decide.”

“I’s no trouble, professor,” Hagrid assured him. “I like stayin’ here bes’—Hogwarts is me home.”

Breaking away from Albus’s caresses, Fang ran to sniff at the crate again, as if intrigued by its fishy scent.

“If you are sure, my dear fellow. You are free to take leave any time you choose.” Albus peered at the eggs. “Are these new?”

Small and grey, they emitted a dull iridescent glow. However he tried, he could not identify them.

“Ah, i’s a bit of a su’prise.” A note of pride crept into the gamekeeper’s voice. “Got them meself, sir. A cross, they are.”

He described the breeding process, which left Albus with the uneasy impression the new species would combine the traits of a manticore and a fire-crab. The headmaster tried not to imagine what Newt Scamander would have to say about this breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding.

“Can’ wait ter raise ‘em! Thought I’d present ‘em as a project, yer know, so students can study their behaviour, care fer ‘em. If i’s all righ’, professor?”

Should these creatures be incorporated in the syllabus, Newt would certainly hear of them from his grandson, Rolf, who was about to start his sixth year at Hogwarts. Albus eyed the crate doubtfully but realised the damage had already been perpetrated. He did not have it in him to order Hagrid to dispose of the eggs. After everything his friend had done for him, protecting him from angry Newt Scamander was the least Albus could do.

“As long as the students’ safety is guaranteed and all the prescribed topics covered, I don’t see why not,” he smiled and was touched to glimpse tears of emotion in Hagrid’s eyes.

“Thank you, professor Dumbledore. Can I offer yer a cuppa, or yer in a hurry?”

“I’m going out but will call on you tomorrow with great pleasure.” He gave the gamekeeper’s arm an affectionate pat. “Have a nice afternoon, Hagrid.”

Once outside of the gate, he turned on the spot. Fawkes, he knew, would join him in the evening. The vibrant colour palette of the Highlands dissipated; a more savage, more mountainous landscape materialised. He was standing in front of a granite tower so tall it seemed to pierce the sky.

Nurmengard was a sad, sad place. Even years later, he was unable to fully discard this feeling, though there was no denying his perception had changed. Little by little, he had learned to concentrate on the details that could be treasured: the shimmering mountain peaks during winter months, the silver trail of waterfall in the distant greenery, the fresh scent of vegetation during spring storms. He had grown attached both to the way moonlight filtered through the narrow window of the cell, and to the pink and golden glow the setting sun would sometimes paint over the opposite wall. Most of all, he was fond of watching Gellert enjoy those small wonders.

Home was where one’s heart was, and his heart belonged to Gellert completely. If this cell was all they had to share—at least while they lived—Albus knew to be grateful and to find advantage in what little they had been granted.

Although still masked, the guards no longer took the trouble to magically disguise their voices. This had permitted Albus to memorise their singularities. There were four of them in total, and they worked in shifts: three retired Austrian Aurors, one trained security wizard with a Northern German accent. What counted for most was that all four of them were reasonable men, none of them afflicted with the cruel streak that rendered wizards of their profession so dangerous. If they had once considered him odd or pathetic, they had grown so accustomed to his daily visits that he was now barely offered a second look. As a matter of routine, they would merely confiscate his wand and check that the food, the blankets and the Healing Potions he brought in were devoid of forbidden spells. At times, they would comment on the weather. Albus did not tempt his luck; every change came gradually.

Once the basket passed the scrutiny, he was escorted to the topmost cell. The door swung open, and his gaze was instantly drawn to the tall man at the window, who turned around.

"Albus."

The name was uttered in almost a whisper. The years of forced silence—a part of Gellert’s sentence—had claimed their toll: he could no longer speak loudly. But this was no obstacle to two wizards who knew each other so intimately they rarely needed to rely on words.

Setting down the food basket, Albus came forward, his worries forgotten in a wink. All he could feel was an overwhelming sense of tenderness. He put his arms around his lover, drawing closer until their foreheads touched.

“I couldn’t wait,” he breathed.

They had a full twenty-four hours before them, a day and a night all to themselves, while the world lingered at the Quidditch tournament.

"I’m always happy when you are here," Gellert responded.

His perceptive eyes studied Albus’s features; they never missed an emotion, and this time was no different. Trailing a feather-light caress down the German wizard’s cheek, Albus spotted a mute question in his gaze.

"I had a run-in with an old friend from the Ministry this morning," he explained. "It went as well as it could. But... I don't believe it’s the actual reason."

"Then what is it? Can something be done about it?"

The noon sun was blazing behind the window, and Albus looked thoughtfully up at the bright sky.

"I feel as if something is about to happen," he confessed. "Something is… lurking about—a magical presence of sorts. And yet, I haven’t come across anything tangible that would confirm such a premonition. I wonder if it might be an illusion induced by the last months’ events, as well as the Ministry witch’s disappearance. I might be paranoid, or simply mistaken."

"A witch has disappeared?" Gellert echoed.

"Bertha Jorkins. I used to teach her; she was a curious student, fairly sharp but foolish after a fashion. A few weeks ago, she travelled to Albania for a family visit, and no one has heard of her since. She hasn’t yet been declared missing. It makes me uneasy because Albania is the closest thing Voldemort has to a sanctuary."

"Yes," came a pensive remark, "a Ministry witch vanishing straight after the recent events is too much of a coincidence. What is her role at the Ministry?"

"She works for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She ought to have returned for today’s event. An international gathering of such proportions requires all hands on deck."

Confusion flickered across Gellert’s face for the first time. That particular department was not one Lord Voldemort would deem relevant to his goals.

"I see. You are not paranoid, Albus. I think I had a headache not long ago."

Albus frowned, concerned; his fingers traced the contours of Gellert’s forehead, his cheekbones, his jaw.

"Do you remember anything?" he murmured.

"No, just the headache. But something is coming."

Nodding, the Englishman slid an arm around him. Together, they settled on the blankets. "Then we'll be ready."

They touched on many subjects as they partook of lunch, and on more still in the afternoon hours. When darkness covered the mountains, they lay side by side, their fingers intertwined, starlight reflecting on their skin. Nothing seemed to matter, nothing but each other’s warmth and heartbeats.

That night, the Dark Mark erupted in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this retelling of one of our favourite Harry Potter books from Albus’s point of view! We have taken this opportunity to not only revisit the book’s plot and offer a version of what may have happened “behind the scenes”, but to also explore the wizarding society and the different types of magic practiced worldwide. At his age, Albus possesses rich knowledge and a wide circle of contacts, but for all his experience, there are personal flaws and challenges he needs to overcome. A few OCs will appear throughout the story as we felt it was realistic for a wizard of his standing to have international friends. Apart from aiding the plot, these characters will allow us to delve into some of the overlooked corners of the world of magic. As far as Albus’s private life goes, "Fumes and Ghosts" is compliant with our Grindeldore stories, which can be found on our respective profiles. As a result, Gellert Grindelwald remains the love of Albus’s life and stands by his side despite his imprisonment. 
> 
> We hope you will enjoy and follow this story, which will be regularly updated, and we would be grateful for any form of feedback. Till the next chapter!


	2. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

On 1st September, Albus could be found at the staffroom window, alone and resembling a dreamy sentinel on a watchtower. It was twenty to ten, almost the hour for the staff meeting, yet the panelled room was shrouded in shadow: without the many candles hovering in mid-air, it would have possessed a ghost-like quality more appropriate for dusk. Rain was drenching the Hogwarts grounds—a most inhospitable scene for anyone unaccustomed to this land.

Many thoughts flitted through the headmaster's mind while his eyes lingered on the distant Forbidden Forest. He held out hope the evening of the competing schools' arrival would be clear and warm. He hoped the weather was different in the Austrian Alps, for he knew how lonely and dispiriting it felt to be confined with nothing but memories when the daytime sky offered no light. If so much as a free moment presented itself that day, he was determined to make a trip to Nurmengard; if absolutely impossible, he would ask Fawkes to keep Gellert company. He also hoped the downpour would not impede Alastor Moody's already tardy journey.

An owl had reached him in the wee hours of the morning to transmit a note by Arthur Weasley: the Auror, it said, believed to have been freshly attacked. Detained by the Ministry, he was unlikely to come to Hogwarts before the meeting was long over. After the events of the World Cup, this could not be a coincidence, Albus was positive of it—on the contrary, the trouble had barely begun. Perhaps he had let his suspicion run away with him; still, he would not relax until Harry had safely stepped inside the castle. The Weasleys—and he could never thank them enough—had sworn to protect the boy all the way to Hogwarts Express.

A shiver of elvish magic drew his gaze to the side table, which was filling with refreshments: teapots and mugs, scones and shortbread, sandwiches and biscuits. Not a minute later, the first footsteps resounded behind the door, and he smiled at the familiar voices.

Minerva McGonagall always arrived before the others… unless Rolanda Hooch beat her to it. Both brisk and athletic, both self-disciplined, they marched in together and beamed upon seeing the wizard.

"Albus!"

"I'm so glad to see you." He approached to embrace them. "How have you been? Had a good summer, Rolanda?"

"Ah, not bad," the amber-eyed witch replied. "At this point, coming to Hogwarts is like coming home."

"It is our home," he agreed, glancing from one woman to the other. "And you, Minerva? You both planned on attending the Quidditch World Cup. I'm relieved to see you safe and sound."

Now that he stood close to the Transfiguration teacher, he could feel her magical aura churning with tension. He knew her better than most, and it cost him no effort to picture her fighting the Death Eaters in the burning camp.

"Come here," he murmured, pulling her into a hug, which she returned with an anxious sigh.

"Oh, Albus, the year hasn't even started, and I dread to think what it might bring. The Dark Mark in the sky for the first time in twelve years!"

Madam Hooch shook her head in silent agreement. Another person's presence then claimed their attention. Severus Snape had walked in soundlessly, yet the magic around him was too distinctive to remain unnoticed—it was Darker in nature and pulsated with quiet anger.

"Hello, Severus," Rolanda called. "Did you have good holidays?"

"Delightful," came a rather bored answer. "Headmaster."

"Good to see you, Severus. Tea?"

At the wave of the Elder Wand, the teapot poured the hot beverage into mugs, and Albus passed one to the young man. A dozen concerns pursued him in regards to this teacher, and one had become especially prominent in the recent weeks: if someone had cause to be alarmed about the Dark Mark, it was Severus. A concern shared by Minerva, whose green eyes also rested on the former Death Eater. Not that now was the time to address it: more members of staff were coming in, among them Filius Flitwick, Poppy Pomfrey and Irma Pince.

A chorus of greetings ensued, their group growing larger. Filius sought out the headmaster with a gesture of helpless regret.

"I expected to see you the first week of August! The Vienna Philharmonic played Schubert and Debussy. I told my sister: no way will Albus miss this."

Great fondness for classical music had created a bond of familiarity between the two wizards.

Albus groaned. "Alas, I was cloistered in Wizengamot for days. I can't tell you how jealous I am. I wish I could have said hello to your sister—we have to find an occasion."

"I can think of one," said a cheerful voice. Charity Burbage had appeared between them, her aura radiant, long hair sending a whiff of flowery scent around her. "The Christmas ball. Are those Muggle composers you just mentioned? Are they fashionable these days?"

"They're still beloved," Filius said as she proceeded to embrace them in turn. "The concert gave me the idea to try incorporating some of their work into our choir practice."

"Oh, please do! This way, we'll all hear it."

A collective _ooh_ signalled the arrival of Pomona Sprout, who, as they knew, had become a grandmother during summer. Her first instinct, however, was a protective one: after checking that everyone was in good health, she hurried to hug Professor McGonagall.

"You have no idea how worried I was when I heard," she uttered. "You were there with the Ministry, apprehending those awful criminals. They didn't even spare the children."

"Now, now, Pomona, nothing terrible happened," Minerva assured her. "Those cowards scattered in different directions almost as soon as they saw us."

Charity intervened. "Pomona, why are we starting our meeting with this? I'm dying to hear the good news."

Sounds of agreement joined her words, and Albus came forward to take the blushing witch in his arms.

"Just what I was about to say. Congratulations, my dear."

At the general insistence, Professor Sprout opened her clutch purse to produce the photograph of a newborn baby girl. While they clustered around her, Septima Vector entered, gave the headmaster a shy nod and seated herself next to Severus.

A tug on Albus's arm distracted him. Turning around, he came face-to-face with an agitated Sybill Trelawney, who was attempting to pull him away.

"Hello, Sybill," he said gently, squeezing her shoulder.

"Headmaster"—her voice trembled—"I have to talk to you; this cannot wait. Again and again, the oracles show the same outcome: death is coming to Hogwarts. It's unavoidable. This year will end in tragedy."

Before he could muster a reaction, Minerva coughed, as if unable to contain herself.

"Good morning to you too, Sybill."

The distraught witch opened her mouth but hesitated, and no words followed. When a song came floating through the door, she, like everyone else, looked at the newcomer. One could have sworn the room had grown brighter with Aurora Sinistra in it. Like Charity, the Astronomy teacher exuded high spirits, though her colleagues had known her to transform seamlessly in times of need.

"Headmaster," she sing-songed, "Minerva, Filius, Charity, Septima, Severus, Pomona, Rolanda, Sybill, Irma, Poppy—oh, my, you are all here! Am I late?"

"Not at all. That being said, I already had half a mind to eat your favourite sandwich," Albus chuckled.

"No, not my sandwich!" She advanced to clasp his hands in affection.

"Aurora, dear, did you end up attending the World Cup?" Charity asked. "Try as I may, there is no escaping this horrid news."

"Oh, yes, I was there with my uncle—he was visiting—but we left straight after the match. It's a long way, and at his age, he can't Apparate long distances any more. I've heard what happened—it's awful." Her velvet black eyes landed on Professor Trelawney. "Are you all right, Sybill? You look a little pale."

"Sybill has seen another death omen." Despite Minerva's self-control, there was a biting edge to her tone.

"Oh… I see." Frowning, Aurora adjusted her headwrap, intent, it seemed, on concealing her unease.

The timid entrance of Bathsheda Babbling, the Study of Ancient Runes instructor, and Hagrid's much louder salutations eased the atmosphere. Nevertheless, Albus could not disregard the expression on Aurora's face. In addition to astronomy, she was more than proficient in divination, including the methods of centaurs. If she could sense Darkness in their future too, he did not fancy their chances in the slightest.

Something brushed his ankles: a dust-coloured cat.

"Hello there, Mrs Norris."

He scooped a piece of smoked salmon from a sandwich and fed it to the animal, then straightened up to offer Argus Filch some tea. The meeting could now begin.

Settling down at the head of the table, he waited for the others to take seats; he needed an instant to render his voice and expression as carefree as possible.

"I believe we are all here, and it makes me very happy to see you safe and well. I'll speak to Cuthbert later"—Professor Binns no longer perceived time the same way as living humans did; he therefore remained oblivious to every meeting they held—"and will brief Alastor Moody, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, when he arrives. He will be joining us in the afternoon. Now for the news you've all been waiting for… It will happen on Hallowe'en."

He paused mock-dramatically to allow his colleagues a little levity. Sybill did not stop wringing her hands, which prompted Madam Pomfrey to observe her with increasing solicitude.

"The two foreign delegations will arrive on 30 October," Albus went on, his notes spread before him. "The Goblet of Fire will ignite after that evening's feast, marking the official start of the Triwizard Tournament. The following evening, the three champions will be announced and brought up to speed. The prearranged dates for the tasks are 24 November, 24 February, and 24 June, pending further confirmation. All the tasks are to take place on the Hogwarts grounds and coordinated by us and the Ministry." He paused again, and for a few seconds, all that could be heard was the scratching of a dozen enchanted quills. "I'm afraid the _Prophet_ will get involved; in addition, there will be an obligatory inspection of the wands by Mr Ollivander. As far as the Hogwarts champion is concerned, he or she will be excused from the final exams. The pool of candidates has been narrowed down to the students of age—that is verified and final. You are, of course, free to encourage those you believe would be interested in and fit for the challenge."

Most teachers expressed excitement at this piece of news; Aurora even clapped in delight. Septima and Minerva, however, exchanged a reticent glance while Severus's usually composed features betrayed scepticism: all three visibly doubted whether it was prudent to host such an event at Hogwarts.

"The Quidditch Cup will be cancelled, I take it," Rolanda Hooch stated with a sigh.

"I'm very sorry to announce it, but yes, Quidditch will have to be suspended this year. The Flying Class stays in force for the first years." Albus addressed the witch, "If you are open to assisting the Ministry officials in arranging the tasks, they will be immensely grateful for your help. I can come to your office later to discuss the details."

She motioned her assent.

"Will the foreign students sleep in the castle?" Septima asked, ever pragmatic.

He explained the schools' plans, which, he could tell, met with Filch's approval.

"They will join us for meals and will enjoy general access to the castle and its grounds, including the library," he added for Madam Pince's benefit.

The librarian nodded, never pausing note-taking.

"Hagrid, your help will be much appreciated as well." Albus smiled. "We might just have to bring in several exotic magical creatures, and your expertise will be invaluable."

"Of course, profess'r Dumbledore, s'r." The gamekeeper was beyond himself with joy. "Wha' creatures have we got?"

"I wish I could say. Sadly, the Ministry asked me to sign a non-disclosure agreement, so I can't venture information before they permit it."

"Ah, well, hope we'll see dragons a' las'!"

Aware of this obsession of Hagrid's, nearly everyone snickered. Not Madam Pomfrey; her indignation had been growing throughout the conversation and was now at its peak.

"Albus, I don't like the sound of it."

"Oh, Poppy, where is your spirit?" Aurora chimed in. "The Tournament is about meeting new witches and wizards, making friends…"

"You, my dear, count the stars," Madam Pomfrey said dismissively. "Most of the time, it's up to me to count the _bones_ of our students. I shudder to think what it is they'll face this year."

Snape's cool voice remarked, "If this competition received international acceptance, I would assume the Ministry has taken steps to minimise the risk. Am I correct, headmaster?"

"It's certainly the goal of the age restriction," Albus said with a grave nod. "Besides, trained wizards will be on hand at every task, should the danger get out of hand."

"I still don't like it," the matron insisted.

"I will do my utmost to ensure the students' safety," he promised gently. "And I have every confidence the champions will be well tended to. After all, you have single-handedly run the hospital wing for years: it's the only reason our students are in excellent health. The creatures at the Tournament can't be worse than the Dementors. Even so, your care will be essential to the champions."

This mollified her a little.

"Why, thank you, Albus. I suppose you're right: this year's beasts can't possibly be worse than the Dementors."

"Precisely; it's all under control," Minerva concluded. "The Age Line will keep the younger and more vulnerable students out whereas the older ones will receive protection."

"Well, I think we can all agree no danger will discourage most students from wanting to test their chances," Filius asserted. "Will you be announcing it tonight, Albus?"

The headmaster nodded. "There is no point in delaying. Some of them must know already; it would be a pity to deprive the rest of them of excitement. This reminds me of the next point: I hope you have brought your dress robes. The Yule Ball will take place on Christmas."

"I've brought several," Aurora commented. "Some for the feasts. With weather like this, nothing is more uplifting than dressing up."

A few smiles followed this declaration, some amused and others slightly indulgent.

"Don't tell me you disagree," she protested playfully. "I come from a place where even Muggles dance at funerals. Presenting a smart front matters: it's important to keep students cheerful, and dressing up helps there."

"I doubt they'll need extra cheer," Septima noted. "I can't help wondering how we'll keep them focused—just imagine their reaction when they hear Quidditch has been cancelled and that foreign delegations will be arriving soon. Good luck getting them to study. We have quite the year ahead of us, if you ask me."

"Agreed," Bathsheda muttered.

In spite of sympathetic looks from Pomona and Charity, Aurora stayed outnumbered in her sentiments, though she was not one to take offence or hold a grudge. It was time, Albus felt, to change the topic. There were O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s to discuss, the yearly Apparition seminar to arrange, the rules and guidelines to reiterate, and the usual safety protocol to go over. Not until an hour and a half later did the meeting come to an end.

Amid the scraping of chairs and more light-hearted talk, the teachers vacated the room to head for the Great Hall, where lunch was about to be served. Snape lingered behind, having caught the headmaster's eye and understood the latter wished to speak to him in private.

For a few seconds, Albus considered the young man. It was true: his disquiet about this wizard never diminished. Thirteen years had passed since Lily Potter's tragic demise and Snape's employment at Hogwarts. Since then, nothing had changed. At his age, Severus could have found something to be passionate about, someone to share his days with—if necessary, he could have asked for help in moving on—but no. Fresh grief was one matter; this was not the same. Albus wished the Potions Master could find a little joy in his existence or learn to treat Harry more kindly. The fact that he never contemplated either was the most disturbing aspect about him.

Of course, all of this was much easier to reflect on than to say aloud. Snape was a grown man, and Albus had no right to interfere in his life choices.

"How have you been, Severus?"

The Dark wizard's answer was direct; like Barty Crouch, he could not stand small talk.

"I'm not sure who was among them, but I reckon Walden was there. The last time we spoke, he sounded frustrated."

Yes, the headmaster thought in disgust, Macnair would not forget the hippogriff's disappearance in a hurry. Killers hated having their victims stolen from them.

"And the Dark Mark?"

"Nobody knows."

"What do _you_ think, Severus? Was it a friend or a foe?"

There was no conclusive evidence that could point them in either direction, Albus knew, but he was curious still.

"We all have betrayed the Dark Lord," came a quiet assertion.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Albus said,

"Three Seers from my circle seem to feel something is coming. I'm sure you have read the signs, as have I. If it is what we believe it might be"—Snape's black eyes glinted in the candlelight—"we'll have to be ready. Once again, I may find myself obliged to ask for your help. But I promise I won't ask anything of you that ought to lead you into direct danger."

An impenetrable barrier shielded the young man's mind, as it always did, yet his magical aura flared like a flame exposed to the wind.

"Any news of Sirius Black?"

He was furious, a fool could have seen it. Albus did not blame him. If anything, he could well divine the trail of thought the wall of Occlumency concealed from view.

_The old coot, constantly asking the others to risk their lives, asking me to spy for him and place myself in danger. But on the one occasion when I request a favour, he turns deaf._

People did not choose whom they loved, and the same went for hatred. Somewhere in the world, a witch by the name of Vinda Rosier still roamed free, and Albus would have paid dearly to have her brought to justice—the more harshly, the better. If not for her selfish schemes, Gellert might have succeeded in his campaign; at the very least, he would not be spending what remained of his life in prison. Albus did not judge Severus for his feeling of bloodlust. Only, Sirius Black was no Vinda Rosier. Snape was not ready to accept this much.

"No news," he replied. "But I'm hopeful Alastor Moody might be of assistance."

It was a useless lie. Stupid was one thing Severus was not, and this was not taking into account his enviable intuition.

"I'll see you at the feast, headmaster. If you'll excuse me, I have classes to prepare."

He was on his feet, his robes billowing, his eyes full of ire.

"Tell me only this, Severus: do you know Igor Karkaroff well? Is there anything in particular we should expect of him?"

"Igor is a coward, but a sly one. Antonin recruited him, I believe—he sympathised with the Dark Lord's ideas. That being said, I don't see him as a serious threat. An opportunist is what he is: he sold all of our names to buy himself freedom. If anyone has a reason to be afraid, it's him."

"Thank you very much, Severus."

The younger wizard departed without a backward glance. Torn between weariness and guilt, Albus gathered his notes to follow his example and head for his office. He was fully conscious of his own double standards. He needed Snape, more perhaps than ever now that the Dark threat had resurfaced. If the Potions Master were to seek him out the following day, asking for permission to resign, to travel the world and enjoy himself, would Albus let him go and lose one of his most valuable lieutenants? The truth stung. And Severus was not the only one. The headmaster thought of Minerva, fearless but frail in her own way: a side of her precious few had ever glimpsed. The night of the World Cup, she had fought the likes of Macnair. This was not her conflict—it was his, Albus's. But he had entangled other people's lives in his war.

A fresh pile of letters awaited him on his desk, along with that morning's edition of the _Daily Prophet_. The front page was dedicated to Miss Skeeter's biting article on the most recent International Confederation of Wizards' Conference. As Albus's eyes slid absently over the text, he registered the words _obsolete dingbat_ , which he knew applied to him.

"Quite right, Rita," he muttered, folding the newspaper for a later perusal.

There were more important matters to attend to before evening was upon them. With a caress on Fawkes's scarlet chest, Albus prepared to depart; he intended to bring Gellert a selection of food from the upcoming start-of-term feast. This plan was foiled by an unexpected memo from the Ministry that demanded that he join Ludo Bagman's department for a last-minute meeting on the Tournament's first task. Cross as two sticks, he complied, not before sending Fawkes to Austria in his stead.

By the time he was back, Hogwarts Express was due to reach Hogsmeade any minute, and there still was no sign of Alastor Moody. This did not change an hour later. Seated in the Great Hall amid other teachers and under an exceptionally stormy enchanted ceiling, Albus was consumed with worry. The only reassuring factor was Harry's presence.

Despite being soaked to the bone like the rest of the students, the boy was speaking cheerfully to his friends and Sir Nicholas. He had grown a little over summer, and his countenance exuded the joy that came with being where one belonged, at the place one cherished above all others. He did not know yet what was coming.

More guilt-ridden than ever, the headmaster faced the great oak doors, where Minerva had appeared at the head of a long line of first years. After their precarious boat ride, the children looked drenched, dishevelled and terrified all at once, eliciting sympathetic moans from Pomona and several other witches. The tiniest among the boys, however—the one wrapped in Hagrid's moleskin coat—shone with elation, not a trace of nerves about him. Albus could not resist an endeared smile. Year after year, for most of his life, he had witnessed this ceremony, and it never grew dull. There was something solemn about this tradition as old as Hogwarts, something pure and sacred. He hoped the first years, who were now listening to the Sorting Hat's song with expressions of awe, would enjoy their studies of magic and treasure their memories of the seven years spent in the castle. He wished they became happy in their new home.

With the last new student Sorted, Professor McGonagall carried the hat and the stool away. All the faces turned towards him, expectant, shivering with cold, and he felt no further delay was acceptable. Hot food and drinks first, excitement later.

"I have only two words to say to you." He beamed at them. " _Tuck in_."

The invitation was readily accepted by students and staff alike. Only Minerva shared his loss of appetite, though self-control impelled her to eat regardless.

"Have you heard back from Alastor?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "I expected him to have arrived at this hour."

No news still when pudding was served. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables were buzzing with chatter, and anticipation could be spotted among certain Slytherins, which confirmed Albus's assumption they knew about the Tournament from their families. At the Gryffindor table, an upset Miss Granger was not touching food, rather unlike her content Housemates.

The time had come at last. Getting to his feet, Albus drew a breath, and his gaze suddenly locked with Harry's. The bright green eyes were watching him with such warmth, such devotion, that for a few seconds, all thought fled his mind. This sensation passed, but the painful tug at his heart could not be dislodged.

_Forgive me, Harry. Forgive me for sending you to those people again and again in summer. Forgive me for having failed to protect you. Forgive me for not being who you believe I am. You are the bravest and most selfless boy I've ever met, and I'll never be worthy of your fondness._

He wanted to say this and more. What he said instead was an ordinary expression of welcome.

"So! Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention while I give out a few notices."

The best delivery, he had learned, consisted in building upon familiar information. He started by mentioning Mr Filch's ban on magical toys and listing the restricted areas before proceeding to the point that was bound to anger most: the Quidditch cancellation.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October," he clarified over an indignant clamour, "and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—"

The doors swung open, and as if in synchrony, thunder rolled through the Great Hall, shaking the walls. A man stood in the entrance. It was Alastor Moody; there was no mistaking his distinctive figure and long staff. And yet, as he lowered his hood, a fork of lightning threw him into dark relief against the torchlight behind him, and something about his posture caused Albus to blink and frown. This confusion was gone as quickly as it had come: relief obliterated every other feeling.

_Thank Merlin._

"I'm happy to see you, Alastor," he said quietly at the newcomer's approach. "Are you all right? I was worried when you were delayed."

"Someone didn't want me here," Moody growled, extending his scarred hand.

Albus shook it, nodding. "We've saved you a seat. Welcome."

He straightened up to address the students, whose attention was hanging on Alastor's every motion.

"May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? Professor Moody."

No one joined him in clapping but Hagrid, which took Albus aback. The children's amazement at the stranger's dramatic arrival was natural; the staff's, not so much.

"As I was saying," he began anew, his voice lighter now that this source of anxiety had been laid to rest, "we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!"

The exclamation had erupted from Fred Weasley, and it loosened the tension so well that the student body practically dissolved in mirth. Unable to help it, Albus laughed heartily. A joke occurred to him, a silly one he had heard not long ago from Ludo Bagman, and to amuse the teenagers even more, he started telling it, only to be halted by a disapproving Minerva, as he knew he would be.

He hence concentrated on the Tournament, explaining everything from its history to the arrival of the foreign schools. As Filius had predicted, his allusion to the death toll did nothing but exacerbate the youngsters' curiosity and boldness… both of which were replaced with displeasure at the first hint at the age restriction.

"I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."

The Weasley twins' obstinate scowls gave him to understand he might as well have saved his warning for the nearest wall.

"And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

Sliding back into his chair, the headmaster was pleased to see Moody eating without a care.

"Arthur notified me this morning. What happened, Alastor? Is everything all right?"

"All good, Albus," the Auror assured him between bites. "Takes more than a few unruly Muggles to defeat me."

His magical eye swivelled in its socket, taking in their surroundings. It stopped on Severus, and a slow, discreet grin lifted the corners of his mouth.

"Any staff members I should know about?"

"No," Albus said sincerely. "All of them are friendly and dependable. I will make the introductions shortly. Did you say Muggles disturbed you last night?"

"Muggles, or someone who wanted me to pay attention to Muggles. I don't believe in coincidence, old friend. I read newspapers. Who could have known about our arrangement, eh?" He chuckled, shaking his mane of grey hair. "It's good to be back on duty, though; I was incredibly bored in retirement. How have you been?"

"For my part, pleasantly busy. I'm glad we'll share some of the load again."

It truly was soothing to have his friend back, to witness his familiar manners and exchange the news. Albus would have liked to ask more questions on the previous night's brawl, but the members of staff were standing up, ready to meet their newest colleague, and presentations were in order.

Minerva and Hagrid greeted Moody cordially; both had gained great respect for him during the days of the Order. A little more reticent, Filius and Pomona offered him polite smiles while Septima and Bathsheda were more timid still. Severus did little to disguise his animosity, and what rescued the situation were Aurora and Charity's presence of spirit and their short if animated conversation with the Auror, which briefly touched upon Charity's hobby of collecting Muggle artefacts. It was Rolanda Hooch who truly stirred Alastor's interest.

"I collect things too," the Flying instructor declared. "And keep them all counted. If anything is required as evidence, come to me first."

Fond of such humour, Moody burst into laughter.

"Have you ever thought of becoming an Auror, Miss Hooch?"

"Why, thank you, but no. I like all my body parts, and I _don't_ like bad wizards. I play fair and expect the same from my opponents."

"All right, no Auror work for you—I'll come to supervise the next Flying lesson then."

The headmaster could almost visualise the spark between them, and the thought kept him merry throughout the evening, which he spent showing his friend around and triple-checking the protection around Hogwarts.

One step into his office put an end to his cheer. Stationed on his perch, the phoenix was flapping his wings, his flaming tail restless.

"Fawkes, are you all right?"

A soft cry quelled this alarm.

"Is Gellert all right?"

Another soft cry. Albus exhaled; his heart was hammering as though it meant to tear through his chest.

"What upset you, my boy?"

A suspicious note had done. New letters had been delivered during the feast, and between the signed and sealed envelopes, Albus found a creased page that must have been ripped from a calendar. The heading read 8 August. Despite a couple of small holes, left no doubt by the tip of a quill, nothing had been written on this piece of parchment, though it was spattered with ink. A particularly large stain had spread over the date, cutting it in half so that it resembled number 3.

"Do you know the owl that brought this?" Albus asked his familiar.

Fawkes cocked his head for no. One could explain this as an honest mistake, the blunder of a distracted sender, who had likely entrusted his bird with a page of draft instead of a finished letter. Yet Albus could tell this was not the case. Only, no matter which spells he cast or which tricks he resorted to, no invisible words appeared—the parchment was, in fact, quite devoid of magic. The curtains undulated on either side of the open window. The bearer of this enigmatic message had long been swallowed by the night.


	3. Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

“Interesting.”

Gellert ran his fingers over the parchment. Albus knew he was testing it for signs of magic, only to find none. It seemed to be exactly what it appeared: an ink-spattered page torn out of a calendar and dispatched before the sender had had the time to scribble a message. The date, 8 August, corresponded to an unremarkable day the headmaster had spent in Wizengamot.

“Those ink stains…” The German wizard held the parchment to the light for one last scrutiny. “Those ink stains were made by accident. Someone wanted to tell you something but couldn’t.” He handed it back. “Who could it be?”

“I ought to check on all of my acquaintances,” Albus mused, frowning at the blank page before pocketing it. “The first person who comes to mind is Bertha Jorkins. Supposing she has been captured and disarmed, sending a plea for help could be her only recourse. This would suggest she has returned from Albania—the calendar is undeniably English. Where would she be detained, though?”

He shook his head, uncertain of the implications such a wild theory entailed.

“Whoever sent this note was incapacitated, I agree: either bound or magically restrained.” Gellert paused in thought. “Did you see the bird that delivered you this cry for help?”

“I wish I had,” Albus admitted heavily. “I found the note on a pile of unopened letters—it had arrived during the evening. The owl had flown away, leaving an agitated Fawkes behind. He had never seen this bird before.”

Instinctively, they glanced towards the window. It was a chilly, gloomy, windy day, rendered more desolate by the absence of rain, if such a thing had ever been heard of.

“Hmm.” Gellert leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. There was such an exhausted air about him that for a moment, Albus could not breathe for anguish. “An unfamiliar bird, a blank calendar page, ink spilled in a hurry… The sender was in a room that contained a desk with an inkpot. They were pressed for time—possibly watched, likely restricted. If they have access to a desk, it means… the captor needs them to write, to keep corresponding… to appear working.” He exhaled with a whisper of a sigh. “No, it is not the Quidditch witch. She is still missing, Albus. Your mystery sender is not. They are forced to appear in public. I cannot tell you more, but I do know this is the last time they have sent you anything by resorting to a bird.”

An icy shiver ran down the Englishman’s spine. He wondered how he could have failed to reach such a logical conclusion on the previous night. He had been focused on the wrong details, and that was the truth. If Gellert’s assessment was correct—which it was, Albus could feel it in his heart—this resembled one of Tom Riddle’s diabolical schemes. Horrifying though it was to admit, Bertha Jorkins would probably never be found—not that Ludo Bagman should neglect to launch a thorough search for her. The sender of this note, on the other hand…

“I will investigate my contacts at the Ministry.” Gently, he started massaging Gellert’s shoulders. He was the only person his lover was allowed to speak to, to touch, and touch was more important than one realised. Shared warmth, gestures of tenderness—nothing could replace those. “I’ll be careful not to betray my suspicion.”

“It might not be a Ministry worker. Perhaps a journalist—anyone who makes a living from writing. Try to see if someone’s letters or articles might indicate they are not themselves… I’m sorry I cannot help you better than this, Albus. Tom Riddle clearly likes games.”

“You have helped plenty.”

Running a soothing caress down Gellert’s neck, Albus could only concur: Tom was a master of mind games. He thought of the _Daily Prophet_ , where he had held his first job as an editor before being offered a vacant teaching post at Hogwarts. Decades had elapsed since his contacts among journalists had withered away. Nevertheless, he would pay the _Prophet_ a visit to ascertain its employees were safe—even Miss Skeeter, whose articles remained cheerfully malicious.

“Tom doesn’t take prisoners unless absolutely necessary,” he surmised. “It has to be a witch or wizard of influence or with useful connections. This makes our task a little easier.”

“I’m sorry I cannot be of more help,” Gellert said again, his voice breaking with melancholy. “If I could leave the cell…”

This time, he did not close his eyes, and the tortured emotion in their depths was heartbreaking to witness. Albus knew his lover had passed through every stage of horror, including the fervent desire to die rather than endure such a life. This thought was now present in Gellert’s unveiled mind, even if it faded as promptly as it had come.

“Have you shown the note to anyone else?”

The headmaster swallowed; he had to compose himself.

“No one.” 

“If there is somebody you trust, it might help to share it. But be careful. The sender’s captors must be aware of this communication attempt, and they will do their best to mislead you.”

“I will stay on my guard,” Albus promised, enfolding the other wizard in his arms. “I don’t want this person to have suffered in vain. You alone know everything, Gellert; I trust no one else completely.”

“Good. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

This last remark was a hint at the trust Gellert had once placed in Vinda Rosier, a former follower of his, only to repent it endlessly. Albus nodded, drawing closer. As they rested their heads against each other, he wished yet again for a deity he could sell his soul to in exchange for switching places with the German wizard.

It was a bustling school he returned to that evening. Having no intention of touching food, he did not stop to see whether dinner was over; instead, he headed upstairs, impatient to bury himself in work. The urge filled him with guilt and shame, for what would Gellert not give for the luxury of intellectual distraction? But work was healthier than Albus’s other manner of dealing with pain, and he had to rein himself in. Someone’s life depended on his resourcefulness.

He spotted the Potions Master’s dark silhouette on his way and, with an absent-minded “Hello, Severus”, proceeded down the corridor. A resentful hiss caused him to halt.

“Headmaster, we need to talk now.”

Albus turned around. Snape looked angrier than usual—livid, in fact. Something had transpired in his absence.

“Would you like to come with me to the staffroom?”

“I’d rather speak to you in your office, if you don’t mind.” The young man’s eyes were blazing; his magical aura, however, betrayed more than fury—there was fear too.

“Very well.”

Neither wizard said another word until the door to the circular office closed on them. Albus hung his cloak and motioned towards the empty chair in front of his desk.

"What happened, Severus?"

“Moody,” snarled Snape, as if the name were poison. “I will not be humiliated by him, Dumbledore! You have to control him!”

“What has Alastor done?”

“He tortured one of my students. _And_ he dares to insult me. I will not have it!”

Albus blinked. “What do you mean by tortured? Whom?”

“He turned Draco into a ferret and made him bounce in the air for everyone to see.”

“Alastor did what?” Sitting back, Albus addressed the portraits of the previous headmasters—a calmer account was in order. “Did any of you witness this scene?”

Most of them shuffled in their frames. Dilys Derwent answered, sounding slightly amused.

“I did, Dumbledore. There was a commotion in the entrance hall before dinner. Mr Malfoy decided to needle Messrs Potter and Weasley by reading aloud a derisive article, you see. The youngsters exchanged a few juvenile barbs, and Mr Potter turned to leave. Mr Malfoy took this opportunity to attempt to hex him. This is what triggered Professor Moody’s outburst.”

“I see. What happened then?”

“As Severus here described, Professor Moody transfigured the boy into a white ferret and subjected him to a… um, vigorous Levitation Charm. Professor McGonagall then approached, reversed the spell and advised Moody to settle the matter with the offender’s Head of the House.”

If Albus resisted an exasperated sigh, it was barely so. 

“Is Mr Malfoy all right?”

“All right?” Snape exploded. “ _All right?_ He was assaulted! How am I supposed to explain this to Lucius?”

“Why not tell him the truth?” another portrait cut in: Mordicus Egg, a proud Gryffindor. “Back in my day, hexing a fellow student when their back was turned would warrant this much and more. If his father has any sense of morals, he will approve of such punishment.”

“Mordicus,” Albus admonished.

With a glare at the portrait, Snape pressed his point.

“That madman transfigured a student into a ferret. What will he do next? How can you allow this, Dumbledore? If students from my House break school rules, it is my responsibility to hand out punishment. What Moody did was an assault, and he must be disciplined. I demand that he publicly apologise to Draco Malfoy.”

“I will speak to Alastor.” This was as good an assurance as Albus could give; he knew Moody would never do what Severus was asking of him. “Now, you say he humiliated and insulted you. Can you explain?”

The Potions Master spoke reluctantly. “When they came to my office, I tried to reason with Moody, but he wouldn’t listen. He views me as a criminal—he even confessed as much. And I am not obliged to tolerate it.”

“No,” the headmaster agreed, running a weary hand through his hair, “treating a member of staff as a criminal is not acceptable. I can’t change Alastor’s values, but I will make sure he adheres to the guidelines.” He straightened up. “Mordicus, will you kindly ask Professor Moody to join me here in an hour?”

The painted wizard sidled out of his frame.

“Meanwhile, Severus, would you please check on Mr Malfoy? He has gone through a distressing ordeal.” Albus considered the young man over the top of his spectacles. “Once he has fully recovered, it would be best to explain to him—in a calm fashion—why he should never attempt such an action again.”

As if ready to object, Snape drew a breath, only to decide against it. A single curt nod, and he walked out in a swirl of dark robes. This was the irony about him, Albus reflected: while Severus required unwavering courtesy towards himself and his students, he rarely had a kind word to spare.

Someone else abounded in what he lacked, though. In the staffroom, Albus was perusing the class registers when he felt her enter—her aura was distinctive in its vibrancy.

“Good evening, Aurora.”

“Good evening, headmaster,” she chirped. “Why so gloomy?”

He looked up from the stack of booklets. Something about Professor Sinistra made the act of lying, even for politeness’ sake, feel contemptible.

“Someone I love is in pain, and I cannot help,” he said quietly.

Surprised, the witch came closer and claimed the seat next to him.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” She took in his posture and expression. “Can something be done? There is an aura of sadness around you. It’s not good, headmaster.”

“I’m afraid… no help will come in this instance.” Albus hoped she would never experience deep suffering; she was so young and good-hearted. “Forgive me. How have you been, my dear?”

“I’ve been good.” Aurora bit her lip. “Not everyone can say the same. I can See certain things… You know, I mentioned leaving the Quidditch World Cup early, but what I didn’t say is that I’d had a nap beforehand. My _ti bon ange_ was granted a vision of the tents burning shortly before it happened. That’s why I told my uncle we had to go at once.”

“I’m very happy you both had a chance to leave in time and stay safe.” He contemplated her. “Sybill’s vision came into question yesterday. I had a feeling it made you uneasy. Was it related to that evening’s events, or was there more to it?”

She smiled. “I’m by no means an expert. At Uagadou, the craft is taught only superficially. I wanted to know more, so I travelled to Haiti. But trying to master the Sight is never quite the same as being born a Seer. If you’ve ever met a person with this gift in its raw form, you will probably know it’s one of the most terrible curses to bear—those wizards hate living with it.”

“That’s absolutely true.” He forced a little levity into his tone. “The person I’ve referred to is a Seer. It… has brought him nothing good.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes shut, Aurora started rocking gently back and forth. For a moment, her British side was utterly discarded. “You must know _sa ki mal_ is getting stronger. I have Seen it—Sybill must have done too. So have centaurs; they are worried.”

And she did not consider herself an expert, Albus thought affectionately. Without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and produced the ink-spattered calendar page—the sender’s cry for help. He trusted the young witch; besides, as an astronomer, she was in the habit of keeping a star chart.

“I received this last night. No message, no trace of magic, not even an envelope.” He handed her the note for a better look. “It says 8 August, though this ink stain obscures half the number, almost transforming it into a 3. While the date isn’t of primary concern, I can’t help but wonder if the stars might offer a clue.”

She studied it intently. “In Sakrémaji, when resurrection takes place—when a deity is called back into this world from the Great Beyond—one needs three potent ingredients. It stands for the Great Trinity, both holy and unholy. Most wizards will shy away from such magic, but if number three is sent to you anonymously, it might be a warning. These ink patterns are clear: intentionally or not, they serve as a hint. Magic works in interesting ways, and nothing happens by coincidence. This is a very concerning message, headmaster.”

She was speaking of Necromancy. Was this what the omen was meant to alert them to? Had a stroke of providence lent the numbers a voice of their own to express what the sender could not? Albus felt another shiver creep down his spine.

“Thank you, Aurora. I agree this is quite alarming. I have to find out who sent it and why.”

The witch flashed him a bright smile. She delved into the pocket of her robe and revealed a candle.

“Don’t worry, headmaster. Take this candle. Light it, or give it to your friend, who is sad. As long as Light is on, Darkness will be contained. I learned this from you.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll have to go now; my lessons will start shortly.”

He brought her delicate fingers to his lips and kissed them gratefully. With one last smile, she hurried away, and he was left to examine the candle, which was indigo in colour and smelled of tropical fruit. He lost no time in carrying it to his office and wrapping it in a sachet, which he tied to Fawkes’s leg.

“Would you please bring it to Gellert, my dear? Can you light it for him? If anything can help him, this might be it.”

He petted the phoenix’s beautiful head, and the bird Disapparated in a shower of sparks.

Aurora’s encouragement had acted like balm on his spirits. Settling at his desk, he applied himself to the task of making as complete a list as possible of all the witches and wizards who could have sent him the note. To the numerous Ministry and Wizengamot members he knew in person, he added his acquaintances from various publishing houses and the _Prophet_ itself, but also the names of the scholars who attended the same conferences as he did, and, no less notably, his old friends.

Between the ritual of resurrection Aurora had predicted and Voldemort’s new prisoner, who was forced to appear in public to avoid suspicion, the question was not what the signs meant. Rather, it was whether the course of events could be altered. Was it too late to banish the threat? Albus did not feel so; he believed the omens allowed him the time to act. Yet where to start?

Years ago, he had witnessed Voldemort’s rise to power and had done nothing. The choice had not been easy, though if confronted with the same dilemma, he would have made it again. Still, his decision to prioritise Gellert’s wellbeing over other people’s safety had not been without consequences, and he alone was to blame.

Tom Riddle, his modest name notwithstanding, was the champion of the pure-blood elite. His vision of the wizarding society entailed strict hierarchy and tight control: he wished for independence and separation from the Muggle world. In this, his views were not so different from the American political model, except it was absolute power he pursued above all. He was, as it were, the exact opposite of Gellert. How Albus had dreamed of helping his lover abolish their flawed, archaic Statute of Secrecy and establish a just system, based on the equality between wizards and Muggles. Even now, he never passed the opportunity to needle Ministry officials, as well as pure-bloods of Lucius Malfoy’s rank, in order to kindle the animosity between them. But in the end, all he had achieved was aggravating the situation.

If Voldemort should recover his body and gather his followers—a plan that seemed to be well in motion—he could become more powerful than ever before, for he had had ample time to learn from his shortcomings and knew better than to underestimate his adversary again. The result would be war. Ironically, Albus’s goals might even come true: devastated by the conflict, the magical government and the old Dark Houses could fall at last, giving way to a better, fairer society. The idea was tempting. Only, Albus was now aware of the price such a change would exact. It meant sacrificing Harry for the greater good, along with the Order of the Phoenix, and the majority of wizarding Britain, and the many, many Muggles unfortunate enough to cross paths with the Death Eaters.

In addition, foreign wizards and witches would once more be compelled to flee the country. The reason Aurora Sinistra had attended Uagadou and not Hogwarts—though as a half-Nigerian, half-English witch, she could have done the latter—lay in the danger Voldemort’s regime had posed in the time of her childhood. Without the political chaos, she could have become one of the brilliant Ravenclaws of her generation. Time was ticking away. A year from now, it might not at all be impossible to see Hogwarts lose precious talent. Aurora, the Patils, the Changs, the Johnsons—all of them might be gone by then, and who could hold it against them?

A tap on the glass disrupted Albus’s joyless musing. With a wave of his hand, the window slid open, and a long-eared owl flew in. He watched it eagerly—could the mystery sender have succeeded in dispatching another note after all? But when the bird dropped a piece of parchment in front of him and departed on the spot, he saw this was not the case. Scribbled in Sirius’s handwriting, the message bore three sentences:

_I'm on my way to England. By the time you receive this, I'll be in London. Harry's scar hurt this summer._

He stared at the words. If anything could have complicated the matters, it was Sirius’s proximity to the Ministry of Magic and its adjacent institutions, all of which would jostle for the privilege of capturing him. What a rash endeavour. Most importantly, Harry's scar had hurt during the past weeks. This _was_ cause for alarm. If Voldemort’s failed curse truly bound the boy to him, was it already too late?

There was a knock at the door. Opening the top drawer of his desk, Albus quickly stowed the note out of sight. Alastor Moody had come to join him for a meeting, as requested.

"Good evening, Albus. Still in the habit of working late, I see."

"Ah, I can no longer free myself from this routine: it’s work, more work, and then I fall asleep. Good evening, Alastor." The headmaster offered him the spare seat. "How do you feel after your first day of teaching?"

Moody smirked. "Good thing that you ask. I’m rather worried at what I’ve seen."

This elicited a chuckle. "You know, two weeks ago, Barty Crouch told me almost exactly the same thing."

"Did he now? If it has come this far, we really have a problem on our hands.” The Auror grinned. “As far as I can remember, you aren't fond of old Barty, eh?"

"No.” Albus flicked his wand, and a teapot materialised out of thin air to pour tea into two mugs. He took the first sip and felt touched when his friend followed his example. For years, Moody had only drunk from his hip flask. “What we share is true, mutual and harmonious hatred. He cannot approve of a notorious sympathiser of Dark wizards, whereas I’m not impressed with his belief in his own sacrosanct judgment. He has ruined so many lives and won’t admit it."

Alastor gave a solemn nod.

"Barty Crouch is wrong. But forgive me for saying you are not entirely in the right either, old friend. Have you already received a complaint about the lesson I taught today?"

It was Albus’s turn to nod. "I’ve been told of the incident with Mr Malfoy from before dinner."

"Ah, so you have." Moody’s grin returned. "Potter turned his back on young Malfoy, and Malfoy attacked him from behind. I can already tell this is his usual method, Albus. Not surprising, seeing who his father is. Besides, if your dear Severus Snape has been encouraging these tactics—which he _has_ been, trust me on this—it has become learned behaviour. Today, this boy used a simple enough hex. Tomorrow, it will be the Cruciatus Curse. It always starts this way."

"You may be right, Alastor," Albus objected earnestly, "but humiliating the boy won't fix his mindset or convince him what he did was wrong. If anything, it will increase his bitterness."

"No," Moody declared, unflinching. "You approach this as an educator. It’s a little late for education, Albus. And _that_ is the problem." He paused. “You see, where Barty Crouch and myself differ from you is that he and I both have to clean other wizards’ mess. I’m not defending Crouch, no, but consider this: the Death Eaters were united by the ideas of a very dangerous Dark wizard. He might be gone, but do you think his vision of supremacy vanished with him? No, it didn’t. The boy’s father is a believer, and I’m positive Severus Snape is too.”

His smile was a twisted one, and it lent his face an impression of sorrow. Albus was reminded of their debates of old, which would sometimes resemble his and Gellert’s discussions. This ability to reason profoundly, to form swift and clever arguments, had endeared Moody to him from the start. They had been friends ever since.

The Auror was not finished; he had raised his hands in a pacifying gesture.

"I know, I know, you’ve always claimed you have your reasons for trusting him, and I’m not disputing it. All I’m saying is that the ideas that once drove him to join the said Dark wizard haven’t gone anywhere—he has simply hidden them behind his flawless shield of Occlumency. And as for young Malfoy, he is already used to attacking from behind; nothing to do about it. I at least protected Potter—truth be told, he is a little too reckless for his own good—and have given Malfoy a scare that will, hopefully, make him abandon his old ways for now. If you think you can still enlighten him your way, by all means, do try, old friend. For my part, I’ve made it clear bullying won’t be tolerated."

Albus had listened in silence. In all honesty, he agreed; as a headmaster, however, he had his duties. Among other points, those duties forbade him from discussing Severus’s issues with a colleague no matter how long-lasting their friendship was.

"I understand. You are right, of course: Voldemort’s ideas didn’t die with his disappearance. They weren’t his invention in the first place, and his sympathisers—the Malfoys included—are merely biding their time. This being said, we are responsible for the students’ safety. Granted, at his age, Draco Malfoy is a young man with a fully-formed identity; yet for all intents and purposes, he is a child. If we resort to discipline, we must be careful not to put the kids’ bodily integrity or magical core at risk. Furthermore, all the members of staff are entitled to polite treatment. These are the rules we ought to abide by if we expect others to do the same, Alastor. If something of this nature happens again, I may have no choice but to issue a formal warning."

Moody rolled his eyes.

"No need to worry. Young Malfoy will keep this incident in mind, I dare say. I would suggest telling Potter not to turn his back prematurely, though. That’s another topic: from what I can see, this boy is a source of interest for many, and not everyone’s intentions are benign. He isn’t nearly cautious enough."

This observation deflated the somewhat tense atmosphere in the room. Albus could not resist a snicker.

"If you instil a sense of vigilance in him, I'll have a statue erected in your honour. In all seriousness... I’ve never met a more perfect embodiment of the Gryffindor spirit. Selfless, brave, noble, loyal—he is a wonder of a child, and I’m not exaggerating. True, I worry about him a great deal, but this is who he is. He will always do the right thing, whatever the personal cost."

"Good… as long as he does it of his own will.” For an instant, the Auror was lost in thought. "What would you say if I placed him under the Imperius Curse? Does he have it in him to fight it off, do you reckon?"

Before then, it had not occurred to Albus there might be a grain of truth in the rumours of his friend’s excessive paranoia. Had he been blissfully naïve?

Alastor burst into laughter.

"If only you could see your face right now! If I didn't know better, I'd think you are questioning my sanity." A few more chortles, and he subdued his mirth. "I’m not joking, Albus. Nor am I being paranoid. First, the Dark Mark was cast into the sky, and then someone tried to attack me. This is hardly a coincidence. The fourth years are supposed to cover the Unforgivable Curses, correct? Let them safely learn everything there is. For all we know, they might have the bad luck of witnessing them outside of these walls."

Not assuaged, Albus toyed with his quill. His voice was even.

"Submitting the students to the Imperius Curse goes very much against the preservation of their bodily integrity and magical core I just mentioned."

"And will the caster of the Dark Mark care? Will those who tortured Muggles at the World Cup care? You cannot protect each and every one of them, Albus. At the very least, they have to be informed."

The older wizard hesitated. All his instincts protested against the proposition, and yet… wasn’t thorough education the reason Durmstrang used to outshine all the other European schools of magic? He thought of Gellert, of Sirius’s message, of the mystery sender, and of the danger Harry faced without even knowing it.

"So be it," he conceded. "You can teach them. I hope they will never need it, but that, admittedly, is wishful thinking."

The shift in his tone left Moody puzzled.

"Is everything all right, Albus?"

"All good. I might just need to go out tonight. Trouble keeps multiplying."

"Any chance you are about to visit the barman of the Hog's Head?"

He was prudent in alluding to Aberforth Dumbledore. Everyone was conscious of the rift between the two brothers, though all the details had remained shrouded in family secrecy.

Albus shook his head. "London. Are you planning on greeting Aberforth one of these days?"

"Naturally. It’s good to keep your friends close." The Auror heaved himself up. "Well, I’ll keep you no longer. Don’t worry; I will not harm the students. But they have to know."

He was almost at the door when an impulsive request tore out of Albus.

"Alastor, if you have a chance... please keep an eye on Harry. I don't want to limit his freedom, but he is in danger."

Glancing back, Moody smiled. "You like that boy, don’t you? I will watch over him, never fear. Good night, Albus."

"Thank you. I promise you will like him too. Good night."

Slightly reassured by this conversation, the headmaster reread Sirius’s note. There was nothing for it. The young man’s cutting style of writing was a show of anger, of rebellion; unspoken emotion bubbled beneath his reticence. Since the day of Sirius’s imprisonment, they had had but one exchange, sufficient only to establish his innocence; now the time had come for a proper talk.

With a wave of his wand, Albus conjured a luminous phoenix that soared out of the window to deliver a most direct message imaginable: _Where can we speak?_

 _Don’t even think of ignoring it_ , he inwardly warned his recipient, pacing across the office.

For once, he need not have fretted, for a Grim Patronus brought an answer within minutes: _The Cock & Bottle pub _.

No more delay. Albus fastened his cloak around his shoulders and Disapparated.

It was summer in London still. The evening breeze was gentle, pervaded with the scent of flowers and cooked fish. Car lights reflected on the leather shoes of Muggles, in the metallic accessories on their clothes. Notting Hill was humming with the energy that emerged at dusk and did not quite dissipate even in the small hours. Having never visited this particular pub, Albus saw it was a brightly lit, renovated Victorian building with a façade the shade of Hogwarts Express. Its wood-panelled premises were busy with customers, who lingered at the bar, around wrought-iron tables and near the television. Sirius’s choice made sense in a heart-rending way. After everything he had gone through, he longed to be among other people.

The wizard himself stood at the wooden bar. No one who had ever met a Black could mistake their posture or their aura, which was Dark and dense, with the restrained yet volatile quality appropriate for a feline. His hair was shorter; his clothes were neat. Even with his back turned, he looked healthier and more youthful than he had done two months earlier.

Although unlikely to attract much attention in such a crowded environment, Albus cast a mild Glamour Charm to render his appearance innocuous to Muggles. Sirius alone would recognise him. Not that he was in any haste to acknowledge his old headmaster—not even when the latter settled next to him, uttered a quiet greeting and ordered a glass of cider.

The young man’s features could have been carved from granite as he gazed straight ahead, restless fingers pushing his drink around.

“How is Harry?” he asked at last. “Who is keeping an eye on him?”

A hostile start this was, but a constructive one nonetheless. Sirius had his priorities sorted out.

“The portraits, the ghosts, and every member of staff, especially Alastor Moody. We are determined to protect him. He is doing well—he is glad to be back among his friends.” Albus frowned. “You wrote to me about his scar. When did it hurt?”

“In August, a few days before he went to stay with the Weasleys.”

And Albus had never foreseen this much. Would he ever learn? Voldemort was lying low, but he was back in the country, no doubt about it. Harry’s scar would burn again soon, and again, and again.

“So you have decided to return and stay near him.”

“Yes. I want to talk to him face to face.” Having said this, Sirius finally turned to look at the older wizard. His expression was daring, poised for an argument.

With a word of thanks towards the waiter, who had set a full glass in front of him, Albus replied, “I’m sure Harry will be happy to see you. How do you wish to tackle this?”

“I need access to the Hogwarts grounds.”

Such an undertaking had to be well-planned. The castle was perilous even for an Animagus, and the Forbidden Forest was even more so. Hogsmeade, on the other hand, was surrounded by wilderness.

“There is a cave in the mountain that overlooks Hogsmeade,” he offered slowly. “It’s empty—I’m only aware of it because it was included in last year’s official search of the village. If Buckbeak is staying with you, it ought to accommodate him as well.”

“Buckbeak is staying with me.”

The crisp comment was followed by a large sip of the young man’s drink. Since the moment they had engaged in this tête-à-tête, his magical aura had grown fitful, unsettled. The headmaster could not help picturing Ariana and the Dark parasitical force that had once taken possession of her frail body.

“You are furious with me,” he stated.

Sirius let out a humourless laugh. “ _Furious_ … That’s one way of putting it. Oh, please, don’t pretend you don’t understand why.”

“I won’t.” Albus inhaled, his throat unusually dry. “You loathe me for not having prevented them from sentencing you without a trial. For not having secured as much as a conversation with you.”

“If only this were all.” The young wizard leaned back, his gestures more emotional now. “My father warned me, you know. How right he was! And I didn’t listen. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since. You, Albus Dumbledore, are no better than Voldemort. Worse, actually. Your politics of delay are just that: they’ve been specifically designed to allow _him_ free reign. I didn’t want to believe it. I joined your Order, oblivious to the fact it was a mere formality. The Order never mattered, did it now? You organised it to be seen doing _something_. And if wizards died in your dirty game, what of it? It was all for the Greater Good. But you know what? Harry. Was. Innocent.”

The bulbs in the lamps around the bar exploded. So did an entire tray of shot glasses a waitress had been about to carry off. The television showed static.

Amid yells and commotion, Albus applied a non-verbal spell, which restored the lamps and the light; the rest could be fixed by the pub’s staff. Muggles always found rational explanations for the events out of the ordinary—not unlike wizards themselves. Through it all, Sirius had never broken their eye contact.

So Orion Black had fathomed out the truth. It stood to reason that the family’s keen political intuition had alerted them to Albus’s efforts to bring down the country’s ruling class. Only, they had not known why he would attempt such an act—not that they would have cared one way or another.

“I don’t deny having an agenda,” he confessed. “And I won’t waste your time justifying myself—my reasons make no difference. However, I am and always have been human. James and Lily’s lives mattered to me; your life matters to me too. I believed they would be safe with you as their Secret-Keeper. When I found them dead, I knew you couldn’t possibly be to blame; you would rather have died than betrayed them. I spent hours searching for you. I must have sent you over twenty Patronus messages. Why were you silent? Why couldn’t you spare half a minute to answer a single one?”

“Do you really want to know?”

It was a rhetorical question. The headmaster waited, ready for another outburst of fury.

“I might not have become what my father wanted me to, but I know how political games are played. Wasn’t it a little too convenient for you to have James and Lily killed? Voldemort beat you at every turn, and then, all of a sudden, you were the hero. Those who had accused you of sympathising with Dark wizards had to fall quiet. And then my godson was propelled into a life of fame he didn’t want, and you got the opportunity to be the strategist. Oh, and it gets even better, doesn’t it? My family was out of the picture—I was the only one left. The Rosiers hardly fared any better: Evan’s death brought such shame upon them that his old man is still reluctant to show his face outside of his manor. What were the odds? All your political opponents from the traditional Dark families were falling faster than you could blink: murdered, discredited, forced into hiding, otherwise humiliated. Whichever way I look at it, the night my best friends were killed, you won. So did you expect me to trust you afterwards? I trusted Wormtail. I know exactly where trust will lead you if you don’t question people’s motives.”

By the time Sirius finished, his magic resembled the waters of a stormy sea. Muggles were instinctively avoiding the pair of them; most were still distracted by the malfunctioning television while a cleaning lady was sponging the liquor from the floor. A mirthless smile had set on Albus’s lips.

“You were mistaken, Sirius. I won nothing that night. Because of my foolishness, a young couple died, and their baby became an orphan. I had run the Order for ten years before you joined, and not a single death had occurred in that span of time—I protected its members scrupulously. Then the Order was infiltrated, and I lost control. The last thing I wanted was to see young people die. No, I will not claim feeling sorry for the Rosiers—I detest the lot of them, except for Druella. But your family’s losses don’t please me. I taught everyone from your parents to your cousins, and I care about my students. When Crouch had you arrested, I pleaded with him, begging for a rightful trial or at least a chance to talk to you. He ended up threatening the person I love most and who has no one but me to protect him. It hurt all the more because you reminded me of that person. No, I won nothing.”

A variety of emotions raged in the young man’s gaze. Faith was not among them. He had never born a more striking resemblance to his ancestors.

“Had you ever bothered to pay me a visit in Azkaban to tell me all this, I wouldn’t have believed a word,” he asserted coldly. “Last June, I was certain you would cover for Snivellus once he murdered me. What could have been more convenient? You hate pure-bloods, all of them—all of _us_ , I should say. Do you know what my mother said before I ran away from home? She said I could deny my blood all I wanted, others wouldn’t let me forget about it. In the end, they didn’t, did they? Who could have suspected poor Wormtail…

“You want to know why I ignored your messages. This is why. For once, I clearly saw what my mother and father had tried to tell me: I was but a pawn in the elaborate game you were playing with Voldemort. Your prize? Destroying the old pure-blood Houses and those who consider themselves elitist. For all I knew, you and Wormtail had set up a trap for me—it would have fit right into your repertoire. Let the pawns kill each other while you and your pal Voldemort plotted in the shadows to trump each other with stratagems. Never mind the innocent deaths—such a loss weighed nothing in the grand game. And for once, you won! All that was left to do was wipe out the last witnesses such as myself. Well, I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction. Falling into your trap meant being apprehended a few hours earlier than I did, and I was determined to kill Wormtail while there was a chance, even if it proved to be the last thing I ever did. You had already snatched Harry, giving him to Hagrid so that I couldn’t take my godson and flee from you all.”

He leaned back; his laughter was unnervingly light. In the stunned silence that ensued, he emptied a shot in a single gulp. With a brusque wave of his hand, he beckoned to the nearest waitress to ask for another.

“I hated you so much, you know,” he drawled. “You and Wormtail, granted. In a way, hatred must have prevented me from going insane. The only detail that didn’t add up was the fact that you let me go last June.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why such generosity? Why not let Snivellus kill me or unleash the Dementors? I’ve been wondering about it since my escape and couldn’t find a satisfying answer. Don’t you want us pure-bloods to go extinct? I’m sure you do. Don’t you want Voldemort to have fewer supporters? I’m sure you do. Or did your game plan change during the twelve years I spent being entertained by the Dementors? Did I miss something? Do tell, Dumbledore—frankly, you owe me a little honesty. After all, I trusted and defended you once upon a time. Come, a little decency now.”

A sensation of unreality had enveloped Albus during this speech. As if in a dream, he heard the waitress place a new glass on the counter; in a similar vein, he took a sip of cider to moisten his parched lips. It was obvious to him that nothing he said would have the slightest effect: Sirius would never stop hating him or alter his views, or perhaps even believe him. His heart was bleeding, though a sense of numbness kept the pain at bay. Soon enough, this pain would bloom and consume him. Yet for now… Unsure why he was doing it, he began explaining.

“Many years ago, in 1945, the love of my life was destroyed by a witch named Vinda Rosier and her pure-blood goons. His work and vision were ruined, his reputation tarnished, and his life shattered. I was deceived into fighting him. Shortly thereafter, he was imprisoned and spent twenty-five years existing in a world of nightmares. No light, no movement, no human contact, no proper nourishment, nothing. Once a month, I would come and talk to his lifeless, withering body. Not one politician I approached would do more than laugh in my face or show me the door. Not until Eugenia Jenkins realised Voldemort was a greater menace than two tormented old men. Yes, I have come to hate the old pure-blood Houses. No less do I hate the Ministry. Most of all, I hate the system that rules our society: the archaic, corrupt and unjust laws that cause so much misfortune. I would like nothing more than to straighten the order of the wizarding community, as my love intended to do from the start. You will notice, Sirius, that I loathe the institutions, not the individuals. I have nothing against you or your cousins or your parents—I wish no harm to any of you. What I want is to see justice and equality in our lives.”

He looked into the distance and did not speak for an instant. “You are surprised I permitted Harry to save you. There was no alternative in my mind. I’m fond of you. And that’s why I lie to Crouch and Snape and the others, pretending I have no idea of your whereabouts. They know it’s a lie, but what can they do? Despise me all you wish—I won’t stop protecting you.”

The ambiance grew louder: a party of smartly dressed people entered, talking and laughing before being ushered upstairs. A waiter darted past the two wizards, who kept drinking.

“You need me,” Sirius deduced, his voice heavy with comprehension. “To control Harry. He is loyal to you. He is the new pawn in your sick and twisted game, isn’t he?”

He drew himself up and stared at Albus, his demeanour demanding.

“He was.” Lying would have been fruitless, not to mention insulting towards Sirius. “Now… I don’t know any more. I’m worried about the future, about the omens I’ve received. I love Harry, and I don’t want him to face Voldemort or encounter more danger.”

The young man clenched his jaw. A matter-of-fact quality entered his voice. 

“Here are my terms. Once I get Pettigrew and clear my name, you will let Harry come to live with me. I’m his godfather, the only family he has left. I can protect him. You say you care about the individuals who get caught up in your wars. If it’s true, you must understand I do not uphold my family’s values the way they did. Harry is safe with me—I won’t poison his mind, if that’s what you are worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Albus assured him. “You are the best parent he will ever have. All I’m concerned about is his safety. We have to stop Voldemort—this time, for good. Then he can go and live with you.”

At this pronouncement, Sirius’s self-control evaporated in a wink.

“Stop when?” he hissed. “Stop how? You don’t have a plan. You don’t know where Voldemort is. All you offer are vague riddles. Don’t you understand?! I’m Harry’s only family, and he has grown up without me. For how long must I wait while you play your warped games?”

For once, the headmaster would not budge. “You said it yourself: it’s necessary to clear your name and track down Pettigrew. The man is staying with Voldemort—finding one means finding the other.”

“During the Christmas holidays, then.”

“Very well.” There was no excuse for denying a reasonable request. “Unless Harry chooses to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, I have no objection. Do you have somewhere to live?”

“I’m looking into it.” Sirius elaborated no further. “There is one more thing. Why does my godson’s scar hurt? Tell me.”

Albus contemplated his drink, pondering how best to formulate a vastly unexplored and untested magical phenomenon.

“When Lily sacrificed herself to save Harry’s life… the magic she performed could be described as a Light form of Necromancy. It caused Voldemort’s Killing Curse to rebound, annihilating his mortal body. Harry’s scar is a cursed scar: it’s tethered to Voldemort’s magic and essence. I cannot be sure, but it is my belief Harry feels it burn when Voldemort is near or when he feels powerful emotion. This leads me to assume Voldemort is back in some form of physical body.”

For a few seconds, the only reaction he saw was shock on Sirius’s face. Then the young man set down his glass and got to his feet.

“I need to go. Keep an eye on Harry. There have been too many coincidences lately.”

“Where—how…” Albus gaped at his retreating figure. “How will I reach you?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

With this, Sirius Black swept out of the pub. Imperceptibly almost, the atmosphere became warmer, more inviting in the absence of his Dark aura. But there was no dispelling Albus’s sorrow.


	4. The Foreign Delegations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" written from Albus Dumbledore's point of view.

Nothing, Albus reflected, could compare to the beauty of the falling night. After the golden hour—the day’s last, glorious minutes—the sky would grow pale. The night would descend slowly, blushing like a modest bride, the stars resembling freckles on her cheeks.

This evening was magical in every respect: clear, cool, tinged with rose and lavender, the moon an almost perfect coin over the dark sea of the Forbidden Forest. The fresh breeze carried the sound of voices in its wake. All of Hogwarts had convened at the castle gates, and the heads of the four Houses were marshalling students into formations. Albus had the humorous notion they were, himself included, Muggle servants lined up in front of a mansion to await their master’s arrival. Minerva, who had drawn up the arrangement, paced up and down the lawn, her green eyes sharp. One day, he thought fondly, she would become an excellent headmistress.

The staff members who had not been tasked with supervising the youngsters had positioned themselves on either side of him. Some stood in silence; others conversed in hushed voices.

“I can’t believe I forgot my camera,” Charity Burbage lamented, wringing her hands.

“You can ask Mr Colin Creevey.” Severus’s cold remark had floated from their left, where Slytherins had been ushered into ranks.

The boy under discussion and his younger brother were attempting to settle this very matter over the heads of Gryffindor second years.

“Colin, come over here!” little Dennis Creevey insisted in a carrying whisper. “The best view’s from here!”

“I can’t, I’m a third year.”

“Give me the camera! I promised mum pictures!”

Filius and Pomona chuckled good-naturedly from behind the orderly rows of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs while Minerva struggled to discipline the unruly members of her House. At her approach, Colin Creevey stuffed the bulky camera inside his robes; the defiant expression on his little face made it plain he would be snapping pictures no matter how many detentions he received. Catching each other’s gaze, Albus and Rolanda Hooch shook with discreet giggles. She looked very pretty these days: her subtle makeup brought out the amber in her eyes and emphasised her sculpted cheekbones. He had a shrewd suspicion as to who this graceful coquetry was on display for. Charity could not contain a comment.

“Ooh, Rolanda, you are positively aglow! Did you curl your hair? This style looks new.”

Her voice rang out more loudly than perhaps she had intended. Propped on his staff, Alastor Moody had the tact to pretend he had heard nothing, though his lips were twitching. The Flying instructor flushed scarlet.

“A very astute observation,” she riposted in a perfect imitation of Professor McGonagall.

“Don’t take it to heart,” Charity objected innocently. “We all want to make a good impression on the guests. See, even the headmaster is wearing perfume.”

Several heads swivelled towards Albus, who seized this chance to steer attention away from Madam Hooch.

“Do you like it?” he jested. “I was so torn between two scents, I nearly came late. But I’m fairly happy with the orange blossom.”

Akin to an indulgent mother, Septima Vector shook her head; Aurora smiled, however, and he winked at her. If he was in a good mood, it was her merit.

As soon as Minerva claimed her spot behind Gryffindors, a sense of quiet anticipation settled over the assembly. Her cheeks shone red with exertion, drawing a smug glance from Severus. He had barely felt compelled to lift a finger, for the eldest Slytherins had taken it upon themselves to whip the rest into obedience. More to needle him than otherwise, Albus called out,

“Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”

Everyone stirred, disturbing the calm. “Where?”

True enough, dashing through the navy sky was a carriage pulled by a dozen magnificent palominos. It was aquamarine in colour, ornamented with the Beauxbatons coat of arms. To the students’ amazement, it landed without slowing down even a notch, and the resulting crash was powerful enough to propel the smallest children backwards. Judging by the smooth harmony with which the winged creatures halted, one could divine they had been trained to perfection; more likely than not, their forceful landing had been deliberate, proof of strength.

Jean-Yves, the previous headmaster of Beauxbatons, had been a pleasant, gentlemanly scholar and Albus’s friend. Olympe Maxime’s interests were different: according to the press, she rather wished to consolidate her reputation as a competent and elegant lady in power. Indeed, when the house-sized carriage opened its door, a student sprang out to unfold golden steps with a motion that seemed rehearsed.

Madame Maxime was a beautiful witch, olive-skinned and dressed in evening attire composed of a chiffon gown and opal jewellery. No doubt was the image of a dazzling patrician lady dear to her heart; her liquid black eyes held but a trace of shyness. Behind her, the Beauxbatons students were filing out of the carriage, numb with cold and visibly appalled at what looked to them the very definition of an inhospitable Nordic castle. If they had brought warm clothes with them, they must have been forbidden from wearing those to dinner in order to comply with the etiquette. Albus felt sorry for the teenagers, but he could understand Olympe’s position. She _was_ their guest of honour and had every right to the respectful treatment she had been hoping for. He started to clap, and the others joined in.

This helped. Reassured and slightly more at ease, she walked towards the gate with her students in tow. Her smile was sincere as she offered Albus her hand to kiss.

“My dear Madame Maxime, welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr.” Her voice was deep and poised. “I ’ope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, I thank you,” he smiled.

With a wave of her hand, she introduced her students before inquiring whether Karkaroff had already arrived.

“He should be here any moment. Would you like to wait here and greet him, or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

Their best efforts notwithstanding, the newcomers looked too hungry and exhausted to be forced to stand to attention.

“Warm up, I think,” she replied honestly. “But ze ’orses —”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them.”

Poor Hagrid had been delayed. His pet project, the iridescent eggs, had given rise to a swarm of blind, eight-legged, impossibly vigorous monsters, which had chosen that particular afternoon to escape into the grounds. The groundskeeper had already spent two hours trying to locate the last three.

Madame Maxime met the suggestion with unimpressed scepticism. Her eyes came to rest on the staff members, and Albus experienced a first pang of annoyance. There was no need to hold his teachers in contempt.

“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,” he promised.

“Very well.”

With an imperious gesture towards her students, she followed Professors Hooch and Sinistra into the Entrance Hall.

An instant elapsed before the spell was broken. Many were eyeing the ivory horses and the powder blue carriage; an enthusiastic clicking noise could be heard in the line of third year Gryffindors. Suddenly, the surface of the lake began bubbling and frothing around a rapidly forming whirlpool. A mast materialised, and then, with a slow majesty, the Durmstrang ship emerged into the night.

Transfixed, Albus watched it glide towards the shore, glistening with water and parting the dark waves. It had been built to match an ancient relic—in fact, it _was_ the relic of an ancient ship, resurrected for continued use. Skeletal and strangely alluring, it appeared to embody the wild beauty of its school.

No sooner was it anchored than its inhabitants started disembarking. The Durmstrang uniform had not changed in the last fifty years, and the sight of the crimson robes and the fur cloaks caused Albus to bite his lip to prevent his memories from engulfing him. His mind kept picturing a seventeen-year-old Gellert, handsome and luminous and dauntless, and he knew that if the Triwizard Tournament had occurred in the times of their youth, his beloved would have been elected the Durmstrang champion.

An unctuous voice disrupted his fantasy.

“Dumbledore! How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

The last time he had laid eyes upon Igor Karkaroff, the man had been in chains. Haggling and practically writhing at Barty Crouch’s feet, he had been desperate to sell his fellows’ names in exchange for freedom. A couple of months in Azkaban had robbed his hair of colour. What a jolting shock it had been, some years later, to open the newspapers and learn that the Durmstrang board of governors—currently dominated by a Slavic majority—had chosen this criminal to run their historic establishment.

Even now, something of the old insolence remained in Karkaroff’s gait and gestures. He ignored the assembled students and teachers completely, marching forward to shake Albus’s hand.

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” the Englishman returned with what, he felt, could be considered his own country’s false politeness.

“Dear old Hogwarts,” Karkaroff sighed, his tone mildly sardonic. “How good it is to be here, how good…” He turned around. “Viktor, come along, into the varmth. You don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold…”

“By all means, professor.”

To the excited crowd, Viktor Krum was a legendary celebrity. To Albus, he was a growing boy—an introverted one, not to mention harassed-looking and uncomfortable at the preferential treatment his headmaster publicly imposed on him. Avoiding everyone’s gaze, he led the rest of his party into the Entrance Hall.

The Beauxbatons students had already settled at the Ravenclaw table. Albus felt proud of Aurora and Rolanda’s welcome: he could tell they had done everything in their power to accommodate the French arrivals. Olympe Maxime had warmed up considerably during her exchange with Professor Sinistra, and her students were chuckling at Madam Hooch’s informal introductory speech.

It did not take long for the rest of the students and teachers to find their seats. Albus’s throne-like chair had been placed between those of the two foreign headmasters. Not without some puzzlement, he considered the still-empty spots reserved for Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman, the former of whom was notorious for his punctuality: even his colleagues’ jokes had never affected his self-discipline. Then again, his schedule truly was full to bursting. The best option was to proceed so that dinner could be served.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and—most particularly—guests.” Albus beamed at his unusually large and colourful audience. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.” A rather derisive laugh from a French student subverted this wish. “The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast. I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”

A rich assortment of international dishes and beverages popped into existence on every table. Pleased to see the weary children digging in with appetite, Albus sat down and was immediately steered into a conversation. 

"Are the plates real gold?" Karkaroff’s intonation was casual, but he assessed the heavy dishes thoroughly.

"They are.”

"Yes, yes… I can see you haff tried to impress, Dumbledore. But do not get your hopes up—Viktor vill vin."

Not daring to peer at Olympe Maxime, who was bound to have heard this pronouncement, Albus smiled.

"You sound confident in the Goblet's choice, Professor Karkaroff."

"Yes, I haff brought the best of the best," the man declared, self-satisfied.

"I don't doubt it."

At the Slytherin table, the Durmstrang students were shrugging off their fur cloaks; some, like their headmaster, had taken to examining the cutlery. As far as Albus remembered, Durmstrang served its meals on trays and plates made of pure silver. He did not like the implications of what he was seeing. Moreover, not one Durmstrang candidate possessed German or Italian or even Nordic features. With one possible exception—the only girl in the group—they were all Slavic.

"Did you have a smooth journey?" he asked of both his companions.

"It was comfortable, zank you," Madame Maxime admitted graciously.

"It vos a chore. Hogvarts could haff met us halfway." Karkaroff laughed before adding, "A joke."

With another smile, Albus cut a bite of his food.

"I don't know if you have heard, but I visited Durmstrang in 1946. It was to teach a seminar on wizarding law. Those four weeks have always stayed with me. Everything was magnificent and special: the panorama, the dining hall, the courtyards, the lakes…"

"In 1946?" Karkaroff raised his eyebrows. "Yes, yes, a long time ago. I haff made many improvements since. Only that veather cannot be helped—how sad." He laughed again. "Look at me: I am talking about veather like the English. Ve must change places—I will make Hogvarts great too."

This was going to be a _very_ long year.

"Is the weather in Norway too cold for your taste then?" Albus clarified lightly. "I'm sorry for asking—I don’t believe I’ve ever caught it—where are you from?"

"From Ukraine! You must know zat! Getting old, Dumbledore—memory like a sieve."

Sniggering, Karkaroff reached for a wine bottle.

"Ah." Without commenting further, Albus turned towards Olympe.

"I hope you will find everything to your liking. There is a division of Hogwarts house-elves, trained specifically to tend to your needs and those of your pupils. Their leader will come to your carriage tonight to introduce himself. Please feel free to call him at any hour."

She smiled. "Zank you, Dumbly-dorr."

Reluctantly, he glanced at his other neighbour. "The same goes for you; Durmstrang will be able to command a number of house-elves too."

"Yes... I zink we shall need more food. Viktor has to start his training as soon as possible." Karkaroff smirked contentedly. "I haff increased the training regimen for everyone and removed the vishy-vashy nonsense in the process. It is much better now."

All of Albus's instincts warned him not to ask, lest he lose his appetite. It was in vain; he adored Durmstrang of old.

"What do you mean, professor? Are you referring to your school’s subjects or its rules?"

"Vot do you know about our proud history?" Karkaroff appeared to enjoy stretching out the intrigue.

"Well, I could tell you Durmstrang has always been famous for offering a well-rounded and highly nuanced education with an emphasis on critical thinking to prepare young wizards and witches for any branch of Light or Dark magic they may encounter after school. Duelling is a substantial part of the curriculum—which is flexible and tailored to each individual’s orientation—but so are the rarer subjects, such as Necromancy, which aren’t taught in any other European school of magic."

"It vos founded by Nerida Vulchanova!" the other wizard boomed, setting his goblet down so forcefully that some of his wine spilled on the table. "A proud Bulgarian, a proud Slav! A good woman. Did you know that, Dumbledore?"

The other teachers were starting to stare at them. Minerva’s eyes narrowed. 

"Of course," Albus said nonchalantly.

"Aha! You haff done your homework," Karkaroff commended. "Vell, I have honoured Durmstrang vonce again. Tvice as much training, like I said. Good strong lads! I'm sorry, Dumbledore—your champion does not stand a chance. But don't you vorry, you haff done vell for yourself too; I can see that. Almost no half-breeds—only a few here and there. Zat is not too bad yet. You follow my suit, make those lads train, and Hogvarts vill be great again too."

Most of the staff had already fallen quiet, and at those last words, even Alastor and Rolanda’s animated chatter died down: the pair of them could not help but gape at the foreign wizard. By Albus’s side, Olympe's fingers tensed around her cutlery. Despite herself, it seemed, she raised her black eyes to scrutinise the four tables. If she reached the same conclusion as Karkaroff, she strongly disapproved: a shadow of disappointment had passed over her handsome face. Naturally, tolerance between magical beings was a topic she held close to her heart—even the small selection of students she had brought from Beauxbatons included two part-Veela girls. It was unnerving to think how easily Karkaroff had succeeded in getting under her skin.

The arrival of Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman saved Albus from having to address the man’s advice.

"Welcome," he smiled, standing up to shake their hands. "We have saved you seats."

Although visibly overworked, Barty Crouch extended polite courtesies to the heads of the foreign schools. Ever cordial, Ludo Bagman observed the Great Hall with pleasure.

"Sorry we're late, Dumbledore—the workload has been insane. You know how it is: wouldn’t be trouble if it didn’t crop up at the last moment.”

The officials settled down at their assigned spots, and the meal resumed. Gingerly, Albus spoke to Madame Maxime.

"Do you see much of Jean-Yves these days?"

The previous headmaster of Beauxbatons had told him of his acquaintance with Olympe.

"Non, not really," she admitted in a clipped manner, picking at her food. "We ‘ave been very busy in ze last mons."

She _was_ offended, believing Hogwarts to be prejudiced against other magical beings. Sighing soundlessly, Albus returned to his dinner. Only, Karkaroff had not finished with him.

"I vos serious before, Dumbledore: you must come and vatch my boys train. Viktor is the very best, of course, a joy to vatch. Much better than the poppycock you had to vitness vhen those old men with sagged balls were in charge."

“That’s very tempting.” In reality, Ragnar Halvørssen, the headmaster of Durmstrang in 1946, could have pulverised Karkaroff with a single spell. "To be frank, I’ve never had the occasion to assist at a Duelling class. Instead, I was authorised to be present at a Conjuring lesson, which greatly impressed me; it’s the favourite subject of two of my closest people."

This provoked laughter.

"Conjuring? Trying to catch snowflakes indoors? I haff done avay vith this nonsense. Why bother? At Durmstrang, we are serious—serious and practical. If we vant to catch snowflakes, ve open a vindow. Sitting on the floor crying for snowflakes is something they do at Ugadugu, not at Durmstrang."

This time, he had gone too far.

"It’s _Uagadou_ , sir, not Ugadugu," a voice corrected him before Albus could draw a breath.

Karkaroff spun towards the speaker and, for once, was mercifully lost for words.

"Yes… off course... Uagada," he drawled. "Excuse me, you… uh, are velcome… to vatch how ve train too."

Aurora gave him a nod and a forced smile before looking away. In spite of her indignation, one could tell she regretted getting involved and wished to cut the conversation short. Karkaroff had no such intention.

"Vot do you teach?"

"Astronomy," she said neutrally.

"Ah, yes, a vomanly subject. But you are very beautiful."

He lifted his goblet to toast her, his face arranged in what he likely deemed to be his most charming smile. All he achieved was render her more uncomfortable.

On either side of the young witch, Minerva and Rolanda sat up a little straighter, as if ready to defend her. Even Olympe’s expression betrayed instinctive distaste. Albus wondered why Barty Crouch had not yet intervened: he would usually rebuke wizards for much less than this. Now, all he did was eat in tired silence. The evening was starting to resemble a _dîner macabre_.

Albus sought out Severus, who was not quick enough to conceal his mirth. Suppressing a headshake of disbelief, the headmaster resorted to Legilimency to convey a mute question.

_Would it be advisable to have Professor Sinistra escorted to her lessons? Is Karkaroff capable of..._

Snape shook his head.

Not altogether reassured, Albus resolved to busy the two heads of schools until pudding was over. The best solution was to engage Ludo Bagman in a loud exchange on the upcoming tasks. 

When the remains of the food vanished and the plates sparkled clean, he stood up. For the students’ benefit, he introduced the Ministry officials first. Soon enough, Filch came forward, his hands laden with the item Crouch and Bagman had brought with them, and one he was impatient to see. The Goblet of Fire was an ancient and unique object, dating from well before the Triwizard Tournament had been conceived. It was large, roughly carved, perfectly preserved and full to the brim of cool blue flames no wizard had ever accurately identified. As he lifted the cup out of its chest and placed it on the lid, his hands throbbed with the force of its magic.

“I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly,” he told his awed audience, whose attention had never been more focused. “Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet.” He paused, endeared at the children’s earnestness; they hardly dared to breathe for fear of missing a word. “Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

Accustomed to his speeches, the Hogwarts students pushed themselves up at once; the foreigners, whose languidness had not yet quite abated, soon followed their example.

“Vell, about time.” Karkaroff got to his feet. “It’s been a challenging journey. See you tomorrow.”

He walked down to speak to Viktor Krum. Olympe was standing up too; she was even less disposed to small talk.

“Good night, Madame Maxime,” Albus called.

“Bonne nuit.” Without a backward glance, she ushered her students out of the Great Hall.

Not a second later, Moody took off. Albus reckoned the Auror meant to apprehend Karkaroff, but he had neither the time nor the inclination to stop him.

“And I thought Lockhart was bad,” Minerva muttered, patting the headmaster on the shoulder in a display of support.

“Yes, may we have him back, please?” Flitwick chimed in.

Certain teachers touched his arm in goodbye; others filed out with a perplexed air. An instant later, Filch and the Ministry officials alone had stayed behind. It was time to place the goblet in the middle of the Entrance Hall.

Just as Albus applied himself to the Age Line with Crouch and Bagman watching, Hagrid came in, his hands covered in burns and mud.

“Found ‘em.” There was a strange, dazed quality to his voice, more appropriate for a sleepwalker. “’Em last skrewts.”

Completing his chant, the headmaster straightened up behind the glowing circle of magic. “Well done, Rubeus. Please help yourself to some dinner; you must be starving.”

Obediently, Hagrid shuffled away. Under different circumstances, Albus would have felt alarmed; now, he suspected a glimpse of Madame Maxime was what had produced this effect.

“Is this in order, Barty?”

"Yes… in order," the brisk wizard assured him.

"Isn't this exciting?" Ludo Bagman exclaimed. "Any idea who the Hogwarts champion will be, Dumbledore?"

"I haven't got the foggiest," Albus confessed cheerfully. "I'm curious to find out how many students will apply from each House."

"But you are secretly rooting for Gryffindor, your own House, aren’t you?" Ludo pressed on with a wink. "You can tell me—I, of all wizards, would understand. It's just like with Quidditch: you can’t help having favourites. And Barty here will pretend he hasn’t heard, eh, Barty?"

The wizard in question did not respond. He stared at the shimmering Age Line.

"I would swear to you I'm impartial, but you wouldn't believe me anyway," Albus jested, though his eyes had sobered.

Barty Crouch looked paler and more strained than he had ever seen him. Could this truly be the result of an excessive amount of work? During the peak of his political activity, the man would become livelier whenever his workload increased. Albus’s mouth went dry.

For two months now, he had been investigating his contacts. His mystery sender continued eluding him. As far as he had established, everyone from Amelia Bones to the employees of Flourish and Blotts were healthy and in control of their lives. Yet now that he contemplated Crouch, he realised he might have been blind.

"Barty," he said gravely, "did you send me a note on 1st September? A blank calendar page, to be precise."

"On 1st September? Hmm… Many meetings that day." After a few seconds of deliberation, Crouch shook himself, impatient once more.

"Young Weatherby sent you an empty page? I will have a word with him! We have too much work for such nonsense. Took my fastest owl too—no, no, that will not do. I am sorry for any inconvenience, Dumbledore. A blank page… as if we didn't have enough on our plates."

"Barty," Ludo protested, shocked, "it had to be an honest mistake! No need to give young Weatherby a hard time. Albus here is not angry—though of course, he would much prefer a Quidditch poster showing a bunch of good-looking lads, eh?"

Even as the wizard laughed at his own joke, it was without malice.

"That's enough, Ludo!" The interaction had thoroughly irritated Crouch. "The Age Line looks fine to me. Our work here is done—we shall take our leave."

Ludo shot Albus an apologetic look. "Well, good night, old boy. I can organise a poster or two—much better than some useless blank pages!"

With this, he hurried after Crouch, who had retreated without sparing a word of courtesy.

"Good night, Ludo," Albus muttered, too disconcerted to mind the younger man's cheek.

_Percy Weasley_ had sent him the ink-spattered page? With Crouch’s fastest owl, no less? This made no sense. The Weasleys had been among the first families he had checked on after receiving the suspicious note. Besides, Percy still lived with his parents, who were doing reasonably well. Nevertheless, Albus ought to ascertain they were safe, each one of them, and that the young man had reached out to him for a reason that remained to be explained.

A clinking sound interrupted his musing: Moody had returned.

"Karkaroff is in his cabin," he reported. "What a piece of work he is! I can tell you are no happier to have him here than I am. And now he fancies one of your teachers! Perhaps we should consider protecting her—what does Snape think? He should know his old friend better than anyone else. The two must share many fond memories."

His grim sense of humour helped Albus recover from surprise. He rubbed at his eyes, drained by the recent events.

"Severus doesn't believe Aurora is in danger, but I will take no chances: she has to stay safe, and to feel safe as well."

They headed for the staircase.

"If someone steals one of my teachers, it won’t be Karkaroff," Albus went on, smiling. "In all seriousness, I like to see you happy. Both of you."

"You noticed.” For the first time in years, a timid expression settled over Alastor Moody’s face. "Of course you did, how could you not? You notice everything… You… aren’t opposed to it? I haven't felt this way with anyone for a long while. Rolanda is… a very good witch."

"My approach is simple: if two people long to be together, they should be. I'd never stand in a happy couple’s way."

The Auror chose his words carefully.

"Rolanda is very loyal to Hogwarts—and to you. But I _am_ determined to fight for her affections. Please forgive me, dear friend: maybe I _will_ steal this teacher of yours. But first of all, I’ll protect her—and the others—from certain vermin that dares to come here."

"Thank you, Alastor. You and I both."

Albus was still smiling when he entered his office. It was not every year that a romance blossomed between two members of staff. The thought brought Aurora to the forefront of his mind, and an idea dawned.

“I would like to speak to the Bloody Baron, please,” he requested of the portraits.

While he waited, he cuddled Fawkes, who had readied himself for an evening flight.

"Will you do me a favour, my dear? Would you please check on the Weasleys and see whether they are alone and safe at the Burrow? Is young Percy home? If anything is amiss, come and tell me straight away—it’s very important."

With a melodious trill, Fawkes blinked and vanished.

A piercing chill, not dissimilar from a breath of icy air, alerted Albus to the ghost’s presence. His blood-specked robes floated in wisps around him; his chained hands were clenched in fists; his penetrating, unblinking gaze was difficult to hold for long. He hovered before the headmaster, eerily still but for his moving robes.

"Good evening, Baron," Albus said. "I am going to entrust you with a task; it concerns the safety of the castle’s inhabitants. Whenever Igor Karkaroff is inside of these walls, I would like you to follow him in your invisible form. If he should act inappropriately towards Professor Sinistra or anyone at all, feel free to give him the best scare in your arsenal. If this doesn't deter him, come straight to me. In my absence, you can seek out Professor McGonagall or Professor Moody."

The Bloody Baron did not utter a word; a frightful smile, however, lifted the corners of his mouth, letting the wizard know his order had been accepted. With a whooshing sound, the ghost sank through the floor and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The foreign delegations have arrived, right in time for Halloween. We wish you a happy and spooky one too!


	5. A Tuscan Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" written from Albus Dumbledore's point of view.

The following day was Halloween. Albus left his quarters early: full to bursting, his schedule only allowed him the time for a quick breakfast, a heap of paperwork, lunch with some of his dearest people, a Ministry meeting, and the evening feast, which would culminate with the announcement of the three champions’ names.

Where he passed, floating jack-o’-lanterns turned in his direction while animated skeletons waved in greeting. Even Charity Burbage, the first teacher he spotted in the Entrance Hall, had partaken in the spirit of the season, for the clip she had Charmed to hold her long hair out of her face was shaped as a large bat with flapping wings. Smiling, she beckoned for him to come closer. She was not alone: planted by the Goblet of Fire and dressed in especially fancy robes was Igor Karkaroff. He watched as, one by one, his students advanced to drop their names into the cup.

The Beauxbatons party was nowhere in sight; in truth, Albus was prepared to wager they were having breakfast in their carriage at this very moment. It saddened him to know Madame Maxime had taken offense at his school’s system without even attempting to understand it. After the devastating war the English wizarding community had suffered, Hogwarts was _fortunate_ to have this many students. A diversity of magical beings could not be conjured out of thin air.

"Good morning, everyone," he called.

Karkaroff glanced up hopefully, only to deflate in disappointment.

"Good morning, Dumbledore. Look at my lads, eh!"

Albus turned towards the Durmstrang youngsters: a group of strapping young men and an equally athletic girl. In unison, they looked away from him—all except Viktor Krum, whose frown never faded. The Englishman thought he recognised an expression of grievance, which puzzled him. What reason had he given this boy for hostility?

"They are strong and proud young wizards," he agreed politely. "And the young lady is beautiful."

The girl blinked and then scowled: she now appeared as vexed as her Bulgarian schoolmate.

Unconcerned, Karkaroff was scanning the Hall.

"And vhere is that good-looking Negro vitch? I do not see her."

Charity reacted swiftly, her indignation genuine. "Aurora is from Cornwall!"

The man’s response—a single cold glare—almost prompted her to recoil with fright.

“I mean to say… I think,” she stammered towards no one in particular.

Unwittingly, though, she had provided him with a piece of information he craved.

"So the Negro vitch is named Aurora? Good, good…"

Since his question had remained unanswered, he fixed his stare on Albus in an expectant manner.

" _Professor Sinistra_ is likely upstairs," the latter returned coolly.

If the Durmstrang headmaster lacked the brains to realise Astronomy teachers worked at night and slept in the morning, Albus was not going to enlighten him.

"Ah. Good, good..."

A sudden commotion among his students disrupted their exchange. One of the boys had whispered in the girl’s ear, angering her greatly. She yelled at him in a language Albus could not place, and the words, which could have been a profanity, wiped the smirks off the boys’ faces.

Karkaroff’s eyes flashed. With a brusque motion of his hand, he led the offenders out, not sparing the two English teachers a word. One had to admit discipline was not a quality he had failed to ingrain in those youngsters: they had followed him out obediently.

Albus felt Charity shiver next to him.

"Ugh, he is as scary as Severus." The second the words escaped her, she blushed and pressed a hand against her lips. “I… I’m sorry—I sh-shouldn’t have said that. It was unprofessional of me.”

Albus tore his attention off the retreating crimson uniforms to pat her arm. “It’s all right; now that you mention it, I can see what you mean.” He heaved a sigh. “Is it my impression, or are his students ill-disposed against me? Were they this grim before I joined in?”

The witch bit her lip, apologetic. "They were… a little livelier."

As if to prevent any further embarrassment between them, a few Hogwarts students filed into the Entrance Hall. The Creevey brothers were among them, ready to make a beeline for their favourite teacher.

"Professor Burbage!"

"Yes, Mr Creevey?"

"We know what we could do during our next class," Colin declared. "You wanted to discuss the currently interesting topics—"

"—we know a good one," little Dennis added.

Both drew a breath before chorusing, "SUPER MARIO!"

Mystified, Charity furrowed her brows. "Super… Mario? The name doesn't sound English. Is it a famous Muggle?"

The brothers launched into an explanation, speaking over each other and confounding the witch even more. As far as Albus could tell, Super Mario was a Muggle game of sorts, involving a man jumping through a maze. It was best to leave them to it.

With an amiable, “I love your bat hairclip,” he gave Charity a smile and proceeded into the Great Hall in search of a bite of food and a cup of coffee.

Pomona sat alone at the teachers’ table, spreading jam on a toast. When he settled by her side, she peered at him sleepily and nodded her greeting.

"Good morning, dear,” he uttered, reaching for a fried egg. “Do you know if anyone from Hogwarts has already submitted their name?"

"Five students from my House promised to." Her lips twitched. "It’s safe to say twice as many applied in secret. What, in Merlin’s name, did you include in the Age Line?"

"Oh, dear.” Her question was revealing in its implications. "It's a little early in the morning to go to the Hospital Wing with a case of long, fluffy beard."

"Is that all there is to it? In that case..." She poured milk in her tea. "Summers took some Ageing Potion—and Fawcett. They knocked at Poppy’s door around half past five."

Torn between amusement and exasperation, the headmaster shook his head. Not a minute later, the sound of another commotion reached them from the Entrance Hall. Anyone familiar with the Hogwarts corridors could easily recognise the laughter of the Weasley twins.

"Here comes a new batch for Poppy," he remarked, downing his coffee in two gulps.

"If those two hadn’t tried, I'd have thought something was very wrong," Pomona chuckled.

By the time Albus reached the Goblet of Fire, the twins had leapt behind the Age Line, which granted them one instant of triumph. An ominous sizzling noise gave way to a blast, and the teenagers felt themselves hurled out of the golden circle. Seeing them land painfully a distance away caused Albus to cringe: he ought to have resorted to a milder spell. Still, one could not blame the onlookers for laughing heartily, especially when it became obvious the two bearded wrongdoers had taken their defeat in good humour.

“I did warn you. I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.”

They shot him unrepentant grins and complied. Upon noticing Harry and his closest friends amid the laughing audience, Albus could not help but admire the innocent curiosity in the boy’s green eyes. Severus could say whatever he pleased; he was wrong—Harry never broke the rules unless he believed other people’s well-being was at stake. He had not even considered submitting his name—one glance at him sufficed to establish as much—and this spoke volumes of his character.

Smoothly, the old wizard’s thoughts returned to the grumpy welcome the Durmstrang students had reserved for him. One possible reason occurred to him while he sorted through his paperwork. Back in the day, a Krum family member had died by the hand of one of Gellert’s followers. He had not been the only casualty among Slavic wizards either. Had Karkaroff stooped so low as to inform his candidates that Hogwarts was run by the lover and ally of the man who had murdered their families? After his first glimpse of Karkaroff’s manners, it was a possibility Albus could not exclude. Clenching his jaw, he concentrated on the documents before him, careful not to pierce the parchment with an angry swish of his quill. He had lunch in Italy to look forward to, and fuming in front of his hosts was the very opposite of his intention.

In the end, he need not have worried: the first few breaths of Tuscan air calmed him down completely. The valley he had Apparated to offered a quaint, romantic view that could have been snatched from a postcard. The porcelain-blue sky, the pastel shades of the meadows, the gentle freshness of the breeze and the scent of the countryside, unspoiled by interference or neglect, helped one feel quite disconnected from the rest of the world. 

The garden was vast: olive and lemon trees shaded carved benches, and the bushes had only recently shed their blooms. A path formed of slabs of stone led towards a graceful sand-coloured villa with green window-shutters. It was the home of Giacomo d’Angelli and his wife, Justice. To Albus, they were more than friends: he had, in practice, adopted them as his own children.

His brief trip to Durmstrang had forged the first bond between them. In the 1940s, Giacomo’s father had been the Italian Minister for Magic, and his vehement dislike of Gellert’s ideas had only been matched by his disregard for his son. Lonely and starved for affection, the boy had instinctively taken a shine to a younger, grieving Albus, striking a painful chord in the latter’s heart.

Giacomo and Justice had been classmates; during their last school years, their friendship had in fact veered close to romance, only to succumb to a tragic misunderstanding. The witch was half-Spanish, half-English; in spite of her distinct predisposition for Dark magic, she was one of the most cheerful and playful young women Albus had ever met, and he had truly valued her company when she had been tasked with guiding him through Durmstrang. He had reached out to her again several years later, only to find her trapped in a loveless marriage with a prejudiced misogynist of a wizard. What was worse, Justice’s parents had taken her husband’s side. Without hesitation, the witch had accepted Albus’s offer to seek refuge at Hogwarts and had never gone back to the wretched man. In time, she had allowed herself to be reunited with Giacomo. They had lived together ever since, as strong a couple as could be imagined.

That day’s lunch had been arranged in advance, for Albus knew how busy the d’Angelli family had become. His adoptive son was no longer a lost, solitary youth: on the contrary, he had started a business in parchment, which had gradually expanded into a monopoly, and his hard work and keen intellect had propelled him into a position of significant influence. Besides, he and Justice had raised two remarkable children: Alvo and Gioella… named in Albus and Gellert’s honour.

Stretched on a bench was a small black cat, who eyed the wizard’s approach as if sensing an opportunity to slide into the house. Sure enough, as soon as Albus tapped the knocker, the animal streaked past him through the opening door. The witch on the other side of the entrance was a spitting image of Giacomo. It was Gioella, better known as Gia.

“Uncle Albus!” she exclaimed, hugging him with all her might. “Come in, we’ve been expecting you.”

She stepped away to let him enter and inadvertently brushed the cat’s tail, which alerted her to its presence.

“Giufà, alto!” But the animal was too quick for her. “Ay, that little beast! He needs to stay outside. How are you, uncle Albus? It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s wonderful to see you too,” he said with a fond smile. “How are you, my dear? Look at you—you grow more radiant with my every visit.”

It was true: she was a beautiful young woman with a perky and energetic aura, a Lighter one than her mother’s.

“Thank you,” she beamed. “When will you visit me in Rome? You are such a mystery—my friends are starting to think you are a figment of my imagination!”

“Uncle Albus is not a toy for you to show off, Gia,” a man’s voice interfered. “Bring Giufà with you if you need to take cute pictures at the Ministry.”

Giacomo had emerged from the sitting room. He was now the head of a business empire of his own, and his physical presence testified to his power: experience and authority had bestowed maturity to his good looks, the way age lent depth to wine. Albus, however, could never forget the young man he had once taken under his wing. He embraced Giacomo cordially.

“It’s been far longer than I would have liked. But I will make up for my long absence. And Gia, dear, I’m looking forward to visiting you in Rome.”

The promise brightened the young witch’s face— she had pursed her lips at her father’s words.

“Haa!” She clapped her hands, delighted. “Vedi, babbo?”

“We’ll see about that.” Giacomo smiled, addressing Albus, “I’ll explain at the table. Our Gia has decided to pursue the family’s longstanding tradition of joining the political arena through the Ministry, but she doesn’t yet comprehend the downsides of such a lifestyle.”

Before the Englishman could muster a reply, they were joined by Justice, and he opened his arms just in time: like her daughter, she positively lunged at him, her eyes sparkling with tears of joy.

“Ay, que bien que llegaste! I missed you so much! Please don’t make us wait this long again—it’s bad enough that Alvito took after you in this regard.”

Stroking her hair, which was set in large, neat waves, Albus pressed her against his chest.

“Forgive me for making you wait, my dear. I’ve missed you too, you can’t imagine.” He drew back to admire her, giving her cheek a caress. “You have also grown more beautiful.”

It was no flattery: despite the passing years, the petite witch—now a widely respected lady—had preserved her youthful, almost girlish essence. Nevertheless, his observation moved her profoundly.

“Mami, stai piangendo?” Gia inquired at once.

“No, no, not at all; something got in my eye. Who let Giufà in? He brings in all this dirt from outside.”

Giacomo intervened yet again to invite them to the dining room before Justice could start crying in earnest. Her relationship with Albus had always been a special one. She had seen and comforted him at his most vulnerable moment—during his breakdown after one of his visits to Gellert at Nurmengard—and, in turn, had revealed her most vulnerable sides to him as well. Their bond was unique for it. It was not to say Albus loved Giacomo, Gia or Alvo any less; only, they were d’Angellis through and through, and it was Justice who had spent long, emotional weeks by his side, adding a precious layer to their connection.

It therefore came as no surprise to anyone when she settled next to the English wizard, ready to assist him and serve him any food he liked. Giacomo suspected she alone knew Albus well enough to have come to treat him as an aging parent, who deserved all the affection in the world, without asking for anything in return. After all, for all its light-heartedness, Gia’s comment had been perceptive: Albus _was_ a living mystery to most. Numerous people believed they knew him, and they were mistaken.

It was Gia once again who added a touch of levity to their conversation.

“Tell us about the Tournament, uncle Albus. How is it going? Who is the Durmstrang champion? Please, tell me they’re Italian!”

Albus blushed pink—there was no stopping it. Even if he was not to blame for what this family’s beloved school had become, he was sorry to be the bearer of sad news.

“Oh, Gia, I wish I could. The schools arrived last night, and the champions’ names will be drawn this evening. But I regret to say… the current headmaster has no respect for history, tradition or, indeed, other wizards or witches. I would show you my memory of the welcoming feast, but I’m afraid of spoiling your appetite. The fact is, all the students he has brought with him are Slavic. And as far as he’s concerned, Viktor Krum alone should compete, whether he wishes to or not.”

Gia positively froze at the news; her fork stayed suspended in mid-air, and her mouth had fallen open. This time, Giufà was the one to break the spell, taking advantage of her stillness to jump on her lap.

“W-what? But… what about… the rest?”

Out of habit, it seemed, she turned towards her father. He was usually the one who provided her with answers and advice.

“I see the rumours have not been unfounded,” he stated calmly.

“You knew?”

“Only the rumours. Durmstrang has not been doing well lately. As it happens, you graduated just in time. The quality of their education has suffered a great deal: a number of teachers quit, and many students have withdrawn their funds and prefer to be home-schooled these days.”

“But…”

Gia could barely formulate her thoughts for shock. She looked between Albus and Giacomo, absent-mindedly restraining the cat, who was trying to paw at the table. Justice was quick to react: her shot of golden sparks forced Giufà to relent, and the small creature ran away sulking into the corner, not before digging its claws in Gia and making her yelp in the process.

“That’s very sad for Durmstrang,” Justice commented, her tone light.

With a resigned nod, Albus explained. “Karkaroff has made duelling his priority; he has increased its practice at the expense of other subjects, including Conjuring. I’m very sorry, dear.” Knowing it was her favourite branch of magic, he gently squeezed the witch’s hand. “In addition, he has expelled all the non-human wizards and witches. Any issues he encounters, he blames on Norwegian weather. Besides, he is determined to bother my youngest teacher.”

Grimacing with indignation, Gia appealed to her father. “Papà, you must do something! He will ruin everything!”

Giacomo leaned back. More clearly than ever, the contrast between his younger, lonely self and the quiet but palpable authority he had acquired manifested itself in his posture. There was almost no physical resemblance between him and his father, who had once been the Minister for Magic; and yet, the expression he wore… it was the same shrewd, penetrating gaze that had been characteristic for Matteo d’Angelli.

“I would, tesoro, but I can’t. It’s either your program on Squibs or Durmstrang.”

He was referring to Gia’s political campaign, centred around the Squibs’ welfare, which was costly to sponsor.

The young witch’s face fell. “Oh…”

To distract Albus from her disappointment, Justice changed the topic.

“You mentioned you wanted to show me something,” she reminded him.

The headmaster reached into his pocket and produced Aurora’s indigo candle. It was a second one she had gifted to him at his request.

“I was going to show you this candle. My Astronomy teacher gave it to me—she got these from her Haitian mentor. It’s the only thing that helps Gellert feel better—it purifies the air in his cell, countering the Dark magic that has gathered there for years. I tried to analyse it, but for the life of me, I can’t replicate the spell. It’s pure Sakrémaji, very different from the magic I know.”

Justice examined it, her black eyes filled with awe.

“Ooh, it’s quite remarkable. The spell on this candle is both protective in nature and meant to enhance your abilities. With some luck, we could find more of these at the source that provides my candles; but if not, there are ways. As far as I know, magical practices are highly unregulated in Haiti, so finding suppliers isn’t easy—but don’t worry, there have to be more. Maybe we can even find a houngan, who will help us reproduce the spell—in which case, we’ll be able to cast it ourselves.” She flashed him a bright smile. “If you entrust it to me for a few days, I’ll see where I can get more. At any rate, this is only a start.”

Such a sweet, reassuring response was more than he had dared to hope for. He pressed her hand again, touched beyond words.

“Of course, my dear—I trust you completely. Thank you so much.”

Blinking moisture out of his eyes, he glanced at Giacomo and the youngest witch.

“So how is your campaign going, Gia? Do you want to tell me more about your plans regarding Squibs?”

“I’m working on creating a coalition,” she announced proudly. This earned a cough from her father. “Well, eventually,” she admitted. “First, I need to gain the necessary support. The campaign is simple: we want Italian Squibs—and I mean in _all_ of Italy—to be granted the same rights as wizards. I think it’s important to show that human value doesn’t depend on one’s magical ability. It’s still a problem nowadays: not only are Squibs denied the protection they deserve, but in the majority of cases, they are positively forced out of the wizarding communities. I want to change it.”

“We are working on it, step by step,” Giacomo specified. “It’s not easy, but the political ground for change is more fertile than before. The world was not ready for Gellert’s ideas back then; now, as long as we proceed carefully, we can discuss them.”

“And _that woman_ can get off my back,” Gia cut in.

Albus understood: Olivia Ollivander, the matriarch of a powerful pure-blood family of wand-makers, had always been a rival of the d’Angellis. Garrick Ollivander, who ran a shop in Diagon Alley, was merely a cousin of hers.

“Gioella!”

“Mi spiace,” she returned at her father’s admonishment, though she did not sound sorry.

“Let’s agree on something,” Justice decided. “No arguing—and no politics at the table, si?” Though stern, her voice had lost none of its sweetness. “It’s not every day Albus comes to visit us.”

Giacomo nodded; he and his wife understood each other without words.

“No politics. This was merely a brief summary of what Gia had chosen to tackle: more rights—“

“ _Equal_ rights,” his daughter ventured. “It’s only fair.”

“—equal rights for all the members of the wizarding community, regardless of their blood status or magical talent. Squibs are only a start; the other groups will follow.”

“And now we talk about the Tournament,” Justice sing-songed. “Are you allowed to tell us anything, Albus?”

“I’d love to share with you all about the tasks to come, but as the only headmaster involved in the preparations, I had to sign a non-disclosure contract,” Albus confessed. Frustratingly, his signature in blood forbade him from debating the secrets of the Tournament even with those who bore no connection to the event. “At the very least, rare magical creatures will be involved. The Hogwarts students—including the underage ones—are very interested in participating; of course, the Beauxbatons party is also quite poised for victory. I have a feeling Madame Maxime thinks us awfully backward for our lack of students of mixed blood. And as for Durmstrang…”

He paused in thought. “You have given me an idea. You see… the current situation in Britain has been increasingly precarious. According to certain signs, peace might not last for long, and a new war could threaten us sooner than we might anticipate. You have heard of Karkaroff’s past. It wouldn’t be surprising if he tried to run for it in a matter of months. This way, the position of the Durmstrang headmaster will be vacated, and hopefully, the board of governors will have learned their lesson, thus becoming more reasonable.” He bit his lip in sudden inspiration. “I’ll speak to Olivia Ollivander. You have Gia’s career to think of, but she could make it her focus to rescue Durmstrang. She loved her school.”

This suggestion perked Gia up.

“You could make it work? That woman has been _torturing_ me—“

“Gia!” The warning, this time, had come from Justice.

“Que?” the girl insisted, her obstinacy lending her a youthful aspect, closer to her mother’s. “Es la verdad, mamá.”

“The Ollivander matriarch is an esteemed friend of uncle Albus’s, as you very well know, tesoro. You are being impolite.” Giacomo’s tone made it plain the matter was closed. He turned towards Albus. “Could you take a walk with me after lunch?”

The older wizard nodded.

“Ooh, can I come along?” Justice chimed in playfully to cover her daughter’s sulky pout. “By the sound of it, delicious gossip is about to be spilled.”

“You look a little jealous, mamá,” Gia shot back.

“Me, jealous?” Justice waved her hand, as if scandalised. “Please, everyone knows uncle Albus likes me best.”

They chuckled at this.

“What about us, uncle Albus?” Gia went on to pursue the banter. “Oh, I know: you like Alvito best, verdad?”

“I adore all of you.” Indeed, he was fonder of them than words could express. “Where is he, by the way? Is he abroad for research or for leisure?”

“He went to the Grand Canyon to study the properties of those rocks. I’ll show you the pictures.”

Justice walked out into the sitting room. Gia was the next one to stand up.

“Lucky Alvito,” she sighed. “I have to head upstairs to write my next speech. Politics has turned out to be so much work, uncle Albus… proprio terribile.”

“L’hai scelta tu questo camino, tesoro,” Giacomo pointed out. “And make sure to think through every detail; the last thing you wish is for someone to spot an obvious blunder. It happened to your grandfather—and it did him good, but still.”

This captured her interest. “Really? When was that?”

“I’ll tell you another time.” He was holding back a smile. “At the time, it wasn’t so funny.”

“You older wizards always do that! I want to know!”

In spite of her exasperation, she recognised the lost cause and approached to give Albus a tight hug before excusing herself. Giacomo caught her hand before she disappeared.

“Be fashionably late, d’accordo?”

“Ma certo.”

There was a silent current of tenderness between them, and then she was gone. 

Albus could not cease marvelling at his adoptive children. It went without saying Gia’s personality combined both of her parents’ traits; however, as if her name, selected to honour Gellert, bore magical properties, it had transmitted to her some of the German wizard’s ambition, some of his energy, his dreams. She was as good as his political heiress without being related to him or having ever met him. Albus felt immensely proud of her: in truth, no amount of obstacles or effort could dampen her enthusiastic spirit. He had been serious in promising to come to Rome to meet her allies and listen to one of her speeches, and he could hardly wait to tell Gellert all about it. Naturally, his beloved knew of Albus’s closeness to the d’Angellis; he was aware there was an extraordinary Italian witch, who had embraced his legacy and made his mission hers.

If given names actually wielded power, Alvo was no exception: like Albus, he had grown up to favour research and academia. A confident, independent and handsome young man, he now often lingered abroad. Sorting through the photographs Justice had retrieved for him caused Albus to experience a familiar blend of happiness and humility. He handed her the last picture with a large smile.

“Should you have plans on ordering a new family portrait, I hope you’ll give me one for my desk.”

“On condition that you join us.” Justice linked her arm with his, as she used to do in the times when she had found refuge at Hogwarts.

Giacomo sat down next to them; with Gia out of earshot, his gaze had gained a tinge of unrest.

“Albus, there is something you must know.”

With a sigh, Justice objected, “I wish you had delayed just a little longer, amore. We see Albus so seldom.”

He did not reply, nor did he turn his eyes away from the older wizard. She sighed again but nodded her assent.

“Giaco is right; this may be urgent.”

Albus frowned, absently stroking the witch’s shoulder.

“What is wrong, Giaco?”

“You will know I lobby a lot on Gia’s behalf—she is blissfully ignorant of the full extent—“

“Only because it would hurt her feelings,” Justice explained. “Young people are idealistic. In reality, if we are to push Gellert’s ideas forward, we need to do so cautiously, and it will require every single method in my father-in-law’s arsenal, if not more. Also, I apologise in advance if I end up murdering Olivia Ollivander at some point.”

Her husband raised his eyebrows. “Honestly, Justice—if our daughter hears us right now…”

“I’m not daft, Giaco. How many times did we make love with the children in the house?” No sooner had the words formed on her lips than she flushed crimson at her indiscretion. “Oh, Albus, I’m so sorry!”

“Here is the thing,” Giacomo carried on. “The Albanian Minister for Magic let it slip that a murder had been committed in their woods. A murder for the purpose of a Necromantic ritual.”

Albus straightened up; all mirth fled his features. Rituals of this nature had been designed for one goal only. And he knew but one wizard with the skill and the ruthlessness it took to perpetrate such a Dark deed.

“This is a very alarming piece of news,” he acquiesced.

“And it’s not all,” Justice said. “The symbols, it would seem—although removed in haste—were unique. They must have been drawn by someone well versed in the art of Necromancy.”

“Someone who had travelled around the world,” Giacomo concluded. “I thought you might want to see for yourself.”

“Absolutely. Thank you for telling me.”

Necromancy was not at all unheard of in Albania, but like any branch of magic, it had its tried and tested practices. Innovation within this singularly complex and obscure discipline was a sinister sign.

“If we are fortunate, this will be determined to be the work of a local Dark wizard,” he reflected quietly. “But it is essential that I investigate. There have been too many coincidences.” He contemplated them. “About two months ago, I received a blank, ink-spattered calendar page from an anonymous sender. Gellert is convinced it’s a plea for help and that the person who dispatched it was restrained. On that same day, Aurora—my Astronomy teacher, who had studied Sakrémaji—told me the omens around the note pointed towards resurrection. I have gone through all of my contacts and remain no wiser as to who sent it.”

Giacomo and Justice exchanged a glance. It was true: such coincidences did not exist.

“I’ll send you a note, Albus,” the younger man assured him. “I have a contact in Albania. The whole affair has been hushed up, which means the British Ministry won’t be informed—and the Italian one neither. Unless, that is, a trace leads to an Albanian witch or wizard in Italy, which I do not deem likely. We have a very limited time to visit the scene of crime. Will you be able to come when I call you?”

“I will make myself available,” Albus declared. “Fawkes will be on the lookout for your message. Thank you, Giaco.”

“Be careful, you two,” Justice urged them. “And I will get you the candles, Albus. How many?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Igor Karkaroff is far from a delicate, mild-mannered man—though we can’t help but hope you find him amusing in a horrible sort of way. His "attraction" towards Aurora is insultingly objectifying. We would like to clarify that when he calls her a “Negro witch”, he resorts to a word that is outdated in modern English but is still used in certain Slavic languages with a neutral connotation (same as "Caucasian", for instance), so he doesn't intend for it to be offensive. Of course, it comes out more offensive for it because he can't bring himself to view the beautiful witch as a respectable and professional human being but rather as a pretty nameless shell. 
> 
> Giacomo and Justice first appeared in our one-shot "Deep Still Waters", which took place in 1946 and described Albus’s trip to Durmstrang. It has remained one of our favourite pieces.


	6. The Goblet Confunded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

There were times when Albus felt certain every moment of happiness had to be paid for in tears. He had spent an idyllic noon with his children in Italy. Ever since, his day was growing more exacting and chaotic by the hour.

After an initial delay, his meeting with Cornelius Fudge was immeasurably prolonged, causing him to leave the Ministry in a rush, lest he miss the start of the feast. There was no question of coming late to the announcement of school champions. For this purpose, he fended off some of his acquaintances, who were interested in discussing the Tournament, only to find himself apprehended by Percy Weasley. Five months earlier, the young man had been a studious Head Boy, ready to graduate with the highest marks. His professional progress had been extraordinary in its speed and success. But even this had come at a price. No flawless suit or competent demeanour could disguise the shadows of exhaustion under his eyes or the lines of strain on his forehead. Unconsciously, his fingers kept rubbing at a small ink stain on his nose, trembling all the while with a combination of nervous tension and volatile magic.

“I promise I haven’t sent anything, professor—and I would never have touched Mr Crouch’s owl without his express permission. I wanted to tell him so ever since your phoenix came to check on us, but Mr Crouch has been in meetings all day long. Please, talk to him when you see him, professor. We haven’t seen his owl for a while, that’s true—I’m not sure when exactly it disappeared—you know how many letters arrive every day; last week, we could barely keep up—and that Skeeter woman keeps prying in Mr Crouch’s affairs, as if he didn’t have enough to deal with already—but I certainly, most definitely didn’t take it. I’ve always found that bird a little intimidating: it’s so big, and people say it bites—not that it has ever bitten me. Please, professor, please tell Mr Crouch I didn’t take it.”

Alarmed at his overwrought state, Albus swore he would explain the facts to Barty Crouch and would assure him of his assistant’s innocence. With a comforting squeeze on Percy’s shoulder and a soothing spell at his fingertips, he made his exit.

It was nearly six o’clock when he stepped out of the fireplace in his office. He immediately headed downstairs and felt an uplifting sense of pride in his staff: everyone from the house-elves to Filius Flitwick had performed an outstanding job. The Great Hall had never looked cosier or spookier with grinning jack-o’-lanterns floating in the mid-gloom while ghostly shapes lurked in the nooks draped with spider web. At the centre of the top table, the Goblet of Fire was brimming with pearlescent flames. Thanks to the seating plan the headmaster had drawn in advance, Karkaroff had Ludo Bagman for a tablemate and was forced to sit far away from Aurora, who had agreed to hold a conversation with Madame Maxime. Albus did not doubt the French headmistress was far from willing to forgive him just yet; still, no one could resist Aurora’s charm for long.

Words failed to describe the intense excitement in the air. The teachers appeared more animated than ever and kept trading jokes; this was nothing yet compared to the fidgeting among the students, some of whom could barely eat for anxiety. If only Albus had the power to accelerate the goblet’s magic, he would not have hesitated. As it was, he waited with the others, picking at his Mediterranean salad—he was still full from his lunch with the d’Angellis—and letting Karkaroff’s stream of words wash over him.

“—and then I decided to innovate the duelling practice as vell. Razer than have a teacher supervise all the classes, I made the older students teach the younger ones. Already the first year of reforms saved me sousands of Galleons, and the numbers keep adding. Not to mention, healsy competitiveness has increased. Everyone vins zis vay! I don’t see why the other schools haven’t implemented the same system—off course, you don’t have ze duelling practice at Hogvarts, do you, Dumbledore? Don’t be surprised if Viktor beats your champion flat—he hasn’t gone one day vithout training since he enrolled at Durmstrang.”

It was easy to politely ignore the man when precious memories of Gia, Justice and Giacomo occupied the forefront of his mind. Besides, Albus felt bolstered at the very idea of improvements within Italian politics. The situation in Britain verged on insanity, that much was true—and he was fully aware it was, by and large, his fault—but thankfully, the other wizarding communities did not rely on his country, and they were well out of his reach, impossible for him to ruin. Leadership was not in his nature; he had been born to teach and to care for those he loved. Gellert was the ruler and the politician; _he_ had always possessed the gift.

Albus could scarcely wait to see his lover the following day. As he had told Justice, the enchanted candle from Haiti was the only magical object to date that could purify Gellert’s cell of Dark magic and offer him a feeling of peace. This meant the world to Albus. Ever since Gellert had been incarcerated, he had suffered through every emotion of grief and horror imaginable. Gradually, he had been forced to realise his trusted followers had used him for their ends, never intending to endorse his vision of equality in return. He had learned to accept his tarnished reputation, knowing the world had demonised him to such an extent that his name had become a dark myth and that universal hatred was all he could hope for. He had understood no pardon would ever come, that he would die within the walls of his prison—and this had been the most devastating truth to embrace. Some wizards did not receive justice; sometimes, one had to make the most of the little one had.

Each of those stages of sorrow had cost him time and much emotional strength. Throughout the years, Albus had been there to share them all. Perhaps was their suffering a part of the reason they both looked old, older than their age warranted—though where Gellert was concerned, the inhumane privations of his imprisonment were most to blame. So when the beneficent properties of the candle manifested themselves, lending the German wizard healthier and more cheerful airs, Albus had all but danced with happiness. He had kissed his lover’s face and hands and would gladly have done as much for Aurora, had the courtesy allowed. Her act of kindness could never be fully repaid. And now… who could predict how significantly Gellert’s state would improve if he were to be granted more candles enchanted by a practitioner of Sakrémaji?

“Dumbledore. Dumbledore! Are you listening?”

He looked up, absent-minded. Karkaroff raised his eyebrows.

“I believe it is almost time,” the Englishman declared innocently.

Behind his loquacious neighbour, Bagman and Crouch checked their pocket watches and nodded their agreement. It did not take an instant for the selection of puddings to clear; all chatter died down more promptly still. On Albus’s left, Olympe Maxime straightened up, as alert as her students.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision.” Sure enough, the magical cup was now throbbing so vigorously that the wood beneath it seemed to vibrate in pace with the blue flames. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

No one so much as breathed in response. The suspense was at its end, and from experience, Albus knew that the greater the tension, the more intense the release of emotion would be. He smiled and gave his wand a sweeping wave; all the lights except for the jack-o’-lanterns went out. The teenagers might as well enjoy a taste of Halloween at this once-in-a-lifetime event.

The tongues of fire spilling out of the goblet blinded the eyes. Without a warning, they turned the most beautiful shade of crimson, resembling a glowing rose in bloom. Sparks streaked out in all directions; they were warm against Albus’s hand but did not singe his skin. And then, at last, a sibilant sound rose from the depths of the goblet, and a strip of paper shot out, right into the wizard’s waiting hand.

Conscious of the entire Hall’s gaze, he held the parchment to the light. The name and the school had been written in neat block letters.

“The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum.”

The group of stoically attentive young men at the Slytherin table erupted in cheers. Those who sat nearest to their victorious classmate clapped him on the back as he rose; a few others sprang to their feet to shake his hand.

“Bravo, Viktor!” Karkaroff roared over the din, startling Albus and Ludo. “Knew you had it in you!”

For once, Viktor Krum wore a genuinely happy expression; he approached the staff table and made his way towards the chamber next door. Albus felt pleased for him; only, a small, curious part of him wondered what Karkaroff would have done if the goblet had chosen someone else. Madame Maxime was applauding, her black eyes assessing.

At once, the fire in the cup returned to its exquisite crimson colour. A sizzle of sparks, and another piece of paper fluttered into the air. This time, the signature and the name of the school had been rendered in an elegant, curled handwriting.

“The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour.” Albus hoped he had not mispronounced the girl’s name.

This champion’s reception was a little less enthusiastic. It could be because Miss Delacour was not as well-known as Viktor Krum; one could even assume rivalry ran higher among the candidates clad in pale blue. But the young lady was far from discouraged. She got to her feet gracefully, her silver-blond hair rippling around her face, and her confident smile exuded magical allure. She had Veela heritage; there was no doubt about it. As she passed the top table to walk out, her headmistress greeted her with fervent clapping. Karkaroff spared the girl one dismissive glance; with a sip of his wine, he proceeded instead to watch several crying Beauxbatons students, as though the sight confirmed his preconceptions about the French school.

And now, the Hogwarts champion. Eagerly, Albus held out his hand for the third strip of parchment, and the result came as a pleasant surprise. For the first time in history, they would be represented by a Hufflepuff.

“The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!”

Those words gave way to an uproar; there was no other name for it. The entire Hufflepuff table had stood up in delight; meanwhile, the teachers were surrounding Professor Sprout to congratulate her. Albus could only imagine how proud Amos Diggory would be upon hearing the news. He mouthed a discreet _well done_ at a blushing and grinning Cedric and gestured for him to join the other two champions in the side room. Ignoring Karkaroff, who appeared to be laughing into his wine glass, Albus beamed at Pomona. She chuckled, dabbing at her eyes. Most members of staff were still clustered around her; Aurora, however, had not moved from her spot. She was eyeing the goblet with a frown of concentration and confusion. The headmaster had no chance to address this uncharacteristic reaction—he had the youngsters to calm down.

“Excellent!” he called the second he was certain his voice would not be drowned in the tumult. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—”

He halted a split second after it happened. The white-blue flames of the goblet had turned crimson once more; they were churning with magic and emitting a fountain of sparks. And he knew, in a visceral way that had nothing to do with reason, a disaster was at hand.

_Please, let this be a mistake, a flaw in the ancient spell_. It was a foolish wish; naturally, it did not come true. A piece of parchment erupted from the cup, and in the dim light, Albus peered at the familiar handwriting. He had expected this; a part of him had divined it at the first sign. Nevertheless, the pure cynicism of what he saw stole his breath away.

_Harry Potter_

_Uagadou_

While he stared at the words, he became aware of the dead silence in the Great Hall. There was nothing for it; they had to carry on. He cleared his throat.

“Harry Potter.”

Hundreds of students twisted on the benches to catch a glimpse of the boy. A clink of heeled shoes on the stone floor, and Minerva McGonagall emerged by his side. She was unsettled, matching his own state.

“Albus, what is this?” she whispered wildly. “How can—“ Her eyes widened at the signature. “That’s Potter’s handwriting! Oh, Merlin. We have to send everyone to bed.”

He nodded, and once she hurried away to communicate her instructions to the other teachers, he fixed his gaze on the Gryffindor table. 

“Harry Potter! Harry! Up here, if you please.”

A lone figure stood up before taking a dazed step towards the staff table. The poor boy looked shell-shocked. One did not need the light to tell the colour had drained from his features. His bright green eyes were open wide, and a single thought struggled to break through his stupor: _I didn’t put my name in_. There was no need for this either: his innocence was undeniable.

“Well… through the door, Harry,” Albus asked quietly, motioning to the side chamber.

With the boy out of earshot, he turned towards the rest of the students. Murmurs and objections were already brewing among the foreigners, who did not hide their displeasure at this blow.

“This is a development none of us foresaw,” he asserted gravely. “Mr Crouch, Mr Bagman, my fellow heads of schools and I are about to investigate the matter and agree on the best course of action. I would like to ask each and every one of you to abstain from forming premature conclusions. Tonight, we shall end our feast early so that a meeting can be held without delay. Thank you for your participation. Good night to you all.”

At this cue, Filius, Pomona, Septima and Rolanda left the table to usher the Hogwarts students into their respective Houses; the remaining teachers, in the meantime, went to escort the foreigners. Albus headed straight for the smaller room. On either side of him, Olympe Maxime and Igor Karkaroff radiated quiet rage, and if it came to a verbal conflict, it was best to conduct it in private.

All the champions were gathered in front of the blazing fire. How differently Albus had pictured this scene! To add to the grotesquery, Ludo Bagman had his hand wrapped around Harry’s arm—there was no telling when and how he had slipped away—though he released the boy at once.

“Madame Maxime!” Fleur Delacour called plaintively. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!”

At her remark, a flood of indignation broke loose.

“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” Olympe demanded, not unlike a mistress scolding a disobedient house-elf.

“I’d rather like to know zat myself, Dumbledore,” Karkaroff bared his teeth in a shark-like smile. “ _Two_ Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me ze host school is allowed two champions—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?”

“C’est impossible! ’Ogwarts cannot ’ave two champions. It is most injust.”

“We vere under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore. Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a vider selection of candidates from our own schools.”

Albus let them storm. His fingers were still clutching the piece of parchment with Harry’s handwriting. Gradually, his consternation had subsided, and his mind was a whirl.

This was Tom’s work; he could feel it in his bones. The string of mysterious events that had transpired in summer had been designed to culminate with this attack on Harry. It was Tom’s most insidious stratagem yet… and the most provocative one too. The wizard had even planted a minion at Hogwarts—a place that was meant to provide unconditional safety to all its inhabitants. If a Death Eater had infiltrated the school, could it be he was present in this room at this very moment, amused at the commotion he had caused?

The headmaster’s first instinct was to suspect Peter Pettigrew; he had, in fact, half a mind to have the school immediately searched for a rat with a mutilated paw. Only, Pettigrew was a coward, and the nasty humour of this note did not fit his pathetic personality. Whoever had stolen Harry’s signature knew Albus was close to Aurora and had access to students’ homework. It was a teacher, or someone who had found a way to peruse a teacher’s file.

Snape’s voice tore the old wizard out of his feverish musing.

“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff. Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here—”

_Not you as well!_ Albus thought, his temper rising.

“Thank you, Severus.”

The Potions Master fell quiet; he knew better than to press his luck. But he had achieved his goal of drawing everyone’s attention to Harry.

Despite his fright, the boy met Albus’s eye and did not look away.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?”

The question was pure formality; they all could see the student was innocent.

“No.” Harry’s voice was firm, determined to be heard and believed. The headmaster’s pride morphed into impatience with Severus when the latter made a noise of disbelief.

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?”

“ _No_.”

“Ah, but of course ’e is lying!” For the first time in public, Madame Maxime had let her emotions run away with her, and Albus knew she was accusing Harry because she did not dare to accuse _him_ directly—not yet.

Outraged by this injustice, Minerva jumped to the boy’s defence.

“What nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I’m sure that should be good enough for everybody else!”

She positively glared at Snape, who, for all his impenetrable disdain, lost his smirk.

“Mr Crouch, Mr Bagman,” Karkaroff intervened in a voice he had once used to beg for a release from Azkaban, “you are our—er—objective judges. Surely you vill agree zat zis is most irregular?”

Everyone peered at Barty Crouch. Only now did Albus fully realise how uncharacteristic the man’s silence was. The Barty Crouch he knew would have taken advantage of this embarrassing blunder to submit Albus to a thorough interrogation, to pressure and threaten him. Their mutual hatred was, after all, notorious. Instead, he stood outside of their circle, ill-looking and indolent. When he spoke, his voice was as curt and irritable as ever, but something flickered in his eyes. A trick of the light, or… a plea.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Knowledge dawned on Albus in a sudden, powerful stroke of certainty. Barty Crouch _had_ sent him the blank calendar page. Barty Crouch was Tom’s victim. He had spent those past weeks under a restraining curse; it was the only explanation for his peculiar behaviour and his missing owl.

“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” Ludo concluded happily.

One had to wonder why he felt so excited at the idea of an underage student being forced to compete in a dangerous tournament. Albus could not help but grow mistrustful of this seemingly good-natured wizard.

“I insist upon resubmitting ze names of ze rest of my students; it’s only fair, Dumbledore!” Karkaroff exploded in frustration. He was perfectly aware the Goblet of Fire would not reignite again, as Ludo swiftly reminded him. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected somezing of zis nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”

“Empty threat, Karkaroff.”

Alastor Moody had limped into the room. Now the argument truly was in danger of escalating.

It went on for a while; even Fleur Delacour contributed to the outpour of dissatisfaction, stamping her foot for good measure. If only Maxime and Karkaroff consented to forget their wounded feelings and consider the wider picture, they would comprehend someone had deliberately placed Harry in danger. Was a young boy’s wellbeing not more important than any manner of competition?

Frowning, Albus compiled a mental list of the wizards who ought to be contacted that same evening. The Minister for Magic was going to receive a full report from Barty Crouch; this being said, he would benefit from an additional explanation. It was necessary to alert Sirius as well—granted, the young man’s loathing for his old headmaster would increase tenfold after this turn of events. And what of Barty Crouch’s personal safety? Any missteps in rescuing him could prove fatal. It was essential that Albus speak to Gellert first so that they could devise a plan.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter _is_ going to die for it.”

Moody’s ominous pronouncement left the others gaping. Harry seemed frozen in place; the other champions appeared astonished. Not even this plain statement had sufficed to sway Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, though. The first one to break the spell was Ludo Bagman.

“Moody, old man… what a thing to say!” His voice held such genuine unease that Albus almost regretted his misgivings.

“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime.” Karkaroff had gone pale. His eyes were hard and impenetrable; his posture indicated he was poised for a fierce fight. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”

“Imagining things, am I?” the Auror snarled without skipping a beat. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy’s name in that goblet.”

“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” Olympe exclaimed, and in spite of his best intentions, Albus lost some of his respect for her.

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” Moody’s magical eye sought out the scrap of parchment in the headmaster’s hand. “I’m guessing they submitted Potter’s name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category.”

He did not need Albus’s confirmation to know he was correct. Karkaroff was speaking again—it had come to thinly veiled insults. Everyone had been emboldened by Crouch’s idle attitude, having always known him to be authoritarian. Yet nothing shocked Albus more than Moody’s next words:

“There are those who’ll turn innocent occasions to their advantage. It’s my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff—as you ought to remember…”

There was something so personal and so malevolent about the inflection of his voice that for a second, he was unrecognisable.

“Alastor!”

Catching himself, Moody said nothing else; he was content to watch on gleefully as Igor’s face flushed the shade of an old tomato. This was getting out of hand, and Albus could stand no more. Instinctively, he resorted to the intonation he used on rebellious children.

“How this situation arose, we do not know. It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do.”

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr —” Olympe believed herself quite slighted.

“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it,” he returned with a tremendous effort not to glare back at her.

For a second time, they had Ludo to thank for dissolving the tension. “Well, shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honours?” He flashed Crouch an imploring smile.

This call to rationality brought a little colour back into the rigid man’s cheeks. He came closer to the four champions and recited the instructions for the first task, which he had memorised. Before his voice trailed away, he did an unexpected double take.

“I think that’s all, is it, Albus?”

The older wizard could not remember Crouch calling him by his first name ever before. His remaining doubts vanished without a trace. Behind his composed façade, Barty Crouch was screaming for help.

“I think so,” he said in his gentlest, most reassuring tone. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?”

The other man shook his head. “No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry. It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I’ve left young Weatherby in charge… Very enthusiastic… a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…”

_A very difficult time_ : another verbal clue.

“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at least?”

Albus threw caution to the winds; he had to try employing Legilimency. He concentrated on Crouch’s glazed eyes, but it was a futile endeavour: there was nothing to see but a smooth mental barrier.

“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” Ludo chimed in, oblivious to their secret exchange. “It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!”

For some reason, this caused his colleague to revert to his learned manners. “I think not, Ludo!”

Disappointed, Albus addressed the other two heads of schools; he could not afford arousing their suspicions. “Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime—a nightcap?”

The false offer did not deceive them. Without a backward glance, Karkaroff led Viktor Krum out of the room. Olympe followed at their heels, listening to her champion’s exasperated rant.

“Madame Maxime, comment est-ce possible? Ce n’est pas juste—ce petit garçon n’a pas encore dix-sept ans, et puis il n’a pas participé comme tout le monde. Ils ne suivent même pas leurs propres règles!”

Their voices faded. Harry and Cedric were now the only students present—maybe even the only sane people in this chamber. Albus felt ashamed of the undignified spectacle they had had to witness—and from adults in positions of authority, no less.

“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed,” he said warmly. “I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.”

The boys obeyed without a word. This left two more _teenagers_ to deal with.

“Severus, would you kindly show Mr Bagman to his room on the second floor? Ludo, feel free to call Lompy for any refreshments. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Ever excited, Ludo Bagman waved at the others before bouncing out; as for Snape, he took in Albus’s glower, understood he was in trouble and hastened to comply. Crouch was leaving too.

“Barty—“ Albus was about to intercept him—he had promised as much to Percy Weasley—when two strong hands gripped the front of his robes.

Minerva’s composure had slipped away; until now, she had concealed her distress from the strangers, but with no one but Moody in sight, she could no longer contain herself. Albus shot Crouch’s retreating figure a desperate look.

“Minerva, please, I need to speak to—“

“Albus, you can’t let this happen.”

Her knuckles had gone white; she was not letting go. The Ministry official vanished in the dark Great Hall for good. With a reluctant sigh, Albus faced the witch and gently placed his hands on top of hers.

“I know.”

“You have to do something. You can’t possibly let Potter compete.”

He contemplated her green eyes, only to find his own fear and helplessness reflected in them.

“I’m not happy about this either, Minerva. But we cannot stop Harry from competing.”

“But—“

“The goblet is an immensely powerful relic. You know what binding contracts of this nature can do. If Harry fails to uphold his duty, his magical core will be damaged— _if_ he is fortunate.”

She released him and started pacing across the room, the dark emerald velvet of her robe absorbing the firelight.

“I know,” she lamented, “I know. But surely… surely, you can think of something. There must be a way to get out of such an agreement—it should be recognised null and void. Potter is too young, and this is against the rules—besides, he didn’t put his name in. How can a contract like this be enforced?”

Shaking his head in regret, he displayed the strip of parchment. “It’s Harry’s handwriting. This is all that matters to the goblet. Whoever submitted his name knew what they were doing.”

He came closer to press her shoulders in a soothing gesture. “We will look after him, Minerva. We’ll keep him safe. And in the meantime, we’ll find out who did this. It’s the only way.” He waited for her to nod before giving her a small smile. “You get some sleep, dear. With everything ahead, we’ll need whatever rest we can get.”

“I’ll… go and check on my House.” She patted his arm, and, with a brisk _Good night_ , walked out, her hand pressed against her lips.

Alastor Moody had not moved from his spot by the hearth. His magical eye lingered on the witch even as she turned the corner.

"I checked everything there was to check around the goblet,” he confessed. “I didn't really expect them to leave any traces, but it was worth a try."

Albus nodded, grateful for his thoughtful help.

"Thank you, Alastor. Of all the schools they could have chosen, they picked Uagadou to mock us."

Moody lowered his gaze in tactful sympathy. "How's Potter holding up? You know him best. You tell me."

"He is stupefied. Of course, he will do the very best he can—that’s who he is. But he needs time—the implications haven't sunk in yet."

There was a deep sigh. "And what are you going to tell Fudge, Albus? Mark my words: Karkaroff is sending owls as we speak. He will blow this into an international scandal."

"Good question." The headmaster bit his lip as fresh worry settled in. "As you know, Fudge sent Hagrid to Azkaban two years ago. All he cared about was saving his image; Hagrid’s life meant nothing to him. If it hadn't been for Harry and his friends, Hogwarts might have closed down. I'd like to think Fudge has learned his lesson, but… I would be foolish to believe it. He will want a scapegoat, as always. And I won’t let him touch any of my teachers again."

"Ah. And that’s where he will latch on to Uagadou.” The glow of the fire leant Moody’s features a grim aspect. “Mind you, your Astronomy teacher seemed to expect something of the sort; she was observing the goblet intently. How well do you know her? Could she be an admirer of You-Know-Who? Or perhaps Karkaroff's charms are more potent than we thought; you could argue one would do anything for true love."

Once again, his line of speech took Albus aback.

"Alastor, this isn't amusing. Aurora has had nothing to do with it. I'll speak to her, but I'm sure she had a mere premonition—she practices divination."

"I’m not saying it’s amusing," Moody objected earnestly. "I just happen to know Fudge as well as you do, and I guarantee he will look for a scapegoat. So think well what you will say to him. After all… On one hand, we have a teacher who didn’t study at Hogwarts and whose references show a suspicious gap from the time she spent in Haiti, being groomed by a dangerous Dark witch with no contacts around here. On the other hand, we have famous Harry Potter—the target of many Dark wizards and witches. And now, he apparently attends Uagadou. You can see why I’m concerned. And when it comes to it, my job requires that I suspect everyone.” As soon as those words left him, he blushed. “Except Rolanda, that is; she is too nice. And she likes Potter too."

Everyone at the Ministry knew the saying: being an Auror and falling in love were two mutually exclusive states of mind. Albus had no force left to protest or even chuckle.

"What do you suggest I tell Fudge?"

"Talk to her first," Alastor advised. "We’ll take it from there. Right now, there is a more pressing matter at hand: this Tournament is a valuable opportunity to have Potter killed and make it look like an accident. We need to think ahead."

This was perfectly true. In fact, it was also a new tactic where Tom’s methods were concerned: he was used to operating alone, in a direct and straightforward fashion that emphasised his contempt for the consequences determined by other wizards.

"We will,” Albus acquiesced. “There are several visits I need to pay. The sooner we catch the culprit, the sooner we will eliminate the threats that loom over Harry and the teachers."

"I'll keep an eye on the boy; this much I promise," his friend assured him.

In his office, the headmaster took a moment to simply cuddle and chatter with his familiar; they needed a little reprieve. It did not alleviate his multiple fears, but it filled him with inner warmth and strength.

After one last caress, he left Fawkes to peck at his dinner and sat down at his desk. First things first: a letter to Sirius.

He had barely dipped his quill in ink when a soft pop disturbed his focus and Lompy the house-elf materialised before him, bowing low.

“Master, Lompy is here to tell you the house-elves are spotting a gross misbehaviour. Since yesterday, one golden plate, two goblets, a knife, a fork and two spoons have disappeared. Lompy had the Great Hall and the kitchen searched, but nobody could find them. Should Lompy order that the common rooms are searched?”

This cherry on the cake was just enough to push Albus to the end of his tether. What a way to top off an already impressive evening.

“There is no need; you won’t find the missing dishes there.” He had a shrewd idea who was brazen enough to steal golden cutlery. “Tell you what, Lompy. I would like the house-elves to apply the Flagrante Curse to every plate, goblet and piece of cutlery in the Great Hall outside of the meal hours. If the thief comes back for more, he will be surprised. And make sure it _hurts_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's name has come out of the Goblet of Fire, and the first suspects have already emerged. Or have they? 
> 
> Happy reading!


	7. The Albanian Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" written from Albus Dumbledore's point of view.

The forest was ancient, thick and vibrant with magic. In the imminence of dawn, it slumbered peacefully in the shadow of a mountain, veiled by a blanket of mist. Nothing disturbed the chilly air, not even the wind. Shivering beneath their cloaks, Albus and Giacomo stepped down the path that led from their Portkey to the scene of crime. No matter which way they pointed their wands, their _Lumos_ would only illuminate the trunks of tall fir trees, the pearly light dazzling to the eye.

They were almost at the clearing: the closer they came, the denser and more charged the air felt. When the long branches parted before them, they had to halt—there was no resisting the instinct of self-preservation. This was a _foul_ place. Not outwardly, perhaps, for the sloped meadow framed by pines was beautiful still, and the snowy mountains looming in the distance could steal one’s breath with their majesty. But every particle of air was imbued with Dark magic. It enveloped them like a shroud of dread, and Albus fought a sudden wave of nausea. He clenched his jaw before glancing at Giacomo, who nodded, his pale features unruffled. They were ready to emerge from the tree line and proceed across the crunchy grass.

Two men were expecting them: an Auror and an Obliviator, unless Albus was mistaken in assessing their robes. The Auror was freshly out of training; he was a lanky youth, unaccustomed yet to dealing with such sinister magic, and visibly too intimidated to protest against their presence. From the mutinous glint in his eyes and his clamped lips, one could tell he was wishing for the courage to intervene—which he would have every right to do. They were, all things considered, nothing more than intruders at a top secret location claimed by the Albanian Ministry of Magic. The Obliviator looked older and more sycophantic for it. With an unctuous greeting, which was acknowledged by Giacomo’s imperious hand gesture, he invited them to carry on. Albus was aware they were breaking the law and meddling in a foreign country’s affairs, yet for once, he could not find it in himself to care; in truth, he was proud of his adoptive son, and more than touched. It was for his sake that Giacomo had bribed the Albanian Obliviator, who had granted them access to the scene of crime when it was least guarded; it was for Albus that the young wizard had foregone a good night’s sleep to conduct this clandestine investigation. And they had not a minute to waste.

With a wave of his wand, the headmaster produced floating globes of fire, which flooded the clearing with light. It was a simple spell; only, those makeshift flames were strangely dim, as though smothered by invisible fog. Such was the concentration of Dark magic across the small pasture that the urge to run away never dissipated. A resurrection had transpired here without the slightest doubt; what they had to ascertain was whether Lord Voldemort had been involved. For all its many risks, this type of magic was practiced more often than one would have believed… incorrectly so, and usually with horrifying consequences.

The evidence had already been confiscated by the authorities, but several noteworthy details remained. By ignorance or sloppiness, the perpetrators had done a haphazard job of removing their traces, the most conspicuous of which were the remnants of white paint on the grass. Thinking fast, Albus conjured a pair of Hogwarts brooms and handed one to Giacomo. When they rose above the ground, they saw it clearly: a wide, semi-faded heptagonal shape had been traced across the meadow, bearing a different symbol in each of its angles. In a ritual of Necromancy, a protective formation was of the utmost importance, especially if enhanced by an assortment of drawn signs.

One of them was almost perfectly preserved: curvy lines enclosed between two triple circles—a possible symbol for the water element. Landing to examine it, Albus was vaguely reminded of the ancient art practiced in French Polynesia. Another rough sketch displayed an ellipsis with two dots in the middle and could have served a defensive purpose, standing for a stone or even a shield. Dried drops of wax weighed the grass blades along the lines of the heptagon, attesting to the use of numerous candles at the ritual.

As the old wizard straightened up, the night chill morphing his sigh into vapour, he spotted a brisk movement by the nearest shrub. At once, he and Giacomo raised their wands. There was another rustle, followed by a soft hoot. A second later, a young owl took flight, something dark clutched in its beak. The wizards could only exchange a chuckle while tension drained from their limbs; it made sense that the longer they dwelled here, the more paranoid they became. Still, they were not nearly finished, and any clue they found could prove valuable. With the Auror’s disapproving stare on the back of his head, Albus approached the shrub, having noticed it was still moving, as if shaken by tiny creatures. He parted the branches to shine a beam of light between the leaves and received a prompt answer. A swarm of rodents had been feasting on dead spiders, and they were now scurrying away, frightened by his presence. There was nothing particularly disturbing about the sight, and yet… if Albus peered closely at the shrivelled bodies and curled up legs, he could have sworn the spiders had dropped dead in unison. He felt a shiver run down his spine. Instinctively, his gaze travelled upwards.

Something had mutilated the trees: shard-like stubs protruded where branches used to be before they had been broken with brutal force. He set off around the perimeter of the clearing, only to encounter more devastation: heaps of dead insects, wrecked shrubs and trees, entire patches of grass shaven clean. He closed his eyes. Much had been written on Necromancy, and with literature’s help, he could form an approximate mental image of the resurrection that had occurred on that night of horrors.

_First, a figure had to be drawn on the ground: a circle or any other geometric shape, depending on the ritual and its culture of origin. This formation was essential for protecting the participants from the destructive magic they sought to invoke. To the figure, the Necromancer would add hand-drawn symbols and candles to better channel the magic and appeal to the spirits. After all, a resurrection was nothing if not a violation of nature, a reversal of the established order, and it went far beyond a human wizard’s power, requiring interference from the other realms. But the spirits demanded an offering—‘a life for a life’ was the basis the art of Necromancy rested upon. Between the chants and incantations, a victim would be immolated—the more willing the victim, the more pleasing their sacrifice would be to the deities. Those would manifest themselves at last in a storm-like display of magic, annihilating everything in their path as they converged on the protective formation, in the middle of which, the resurrected wizard would rise in his new body…_

Albus spun around. With a sharp intake of breath, he headed for the centre of the heptagon. It was not a mark of gore he expected to find—the spilled blood had long been scrubbed off, and nature would have seen to the rest. Rather, he had to ensure nothing had been left unchecked where the Necromancer’s identity was concerned. Not without a shudder, he knelt down and ran his hands over the frozen ground. After a moment, his fingers located a slight indentation, and he struggled to keep them steady.

“Giaco, can you see a shape here?”

The younger man approached, his lit wand outstretched.

“There are contours of a body,” he replied, his eyes narrowed in his attempt to determine the imprint’s exact size. “A tall one. But…”

He lowered himself to a crouching position, and Albus understood why he was puzzled. If their senses were not deceiving them, there appeared to be… a shape within a shape. Something—someone—miniature had lain where a much larger body had reposed. Granted, certain Necromancers resorted to human-sized dolls to represent a living body; those were meant to vanish in the course of the ritual. But why this child-like figure?

It was too much; Albus had to cover his mouth to prevent himself from gagging. His lack of sleep was not helping. After pulling Harry’s name out of the Goblet of Fire, he had spent the night hours questioning the ghosts and the portraits for any hints on the culprit’s identity. A futile interrogation if ever he had conducted one: the Death Eater had plainly had the sense to render himself invisible before tackling the goblet. All Albus had achieved was to exhaust himself too much to sleep. As if on cue, Giacomo’s message had arrived at half past five in the morning, and both wizards had swiftly Apparated in front of the Italian Ministry of Magic. After passing through a trustworthy contact and a special portal, they had been transferred to Albania. A few instants were all they could hope for.

“Are you all right, Albus?”

Giacomo’s hand touched the older man’s arm. Nodding, the Englishman pressed the comforting fingers and got to his feet. This was when he glimpsed a white speck in the grass a little further away. It was a torn paper napkin with the words _Valbona Han_ printed in the corner, as was the custom for restaurants and inns.

“They must have dropped this.” He showed it to the Italian wizard. “I wonder if it comes from an eating place around here.”

If the Auror had tolerated their intrusion before now, his patience ran out at the sight of Albus slipping the napkin in his pocket. He pointed an indignant finger at them, even if his voice betrayed fear.

“Hey! Zis clue belongs to Albanian Ministry. You can’t take it!”

Giacomo turned around, his handsome features haughty. All of a sudden, his aura blazed, and Dark magic poured out of his limbs, perceivable in spite of the poisonous air around them.

“We will take whatever we want.”

It was enough to cow the Auror; to his credit, though, the boy did not give up. He switched to Albanian instead, rounding up on the Obliviator to express his displeasure. No sooner was his back turned than Giacomo flicked his wand, binding the youth from head to foot with invisible ropes. Albus knew what came next, knew that once the Auror’s memory was modified, they would have to leave without delay. He therefore hastily approached the Obliviator, the torn napkin in hand.

“Have you heard of this place?”

The man held it closer to his eyes. “ _Valbona_ … yes, it’s an inn, not far. Three kilometres to the east.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod in his direction, a servile smile towards Giacomo, and an emphatic _It’s good to do business with you_ to them both, the Albanian watched them go. They did not need to hear the incantation to comprehend the Auror had been Obliviated. When they Apparated at the indicated location, it was with great relief that they breathed in the fresh air of the valley, which overlooked a Muggle village on the slope of a mountain. On their right, a large if modest building bore the words _Valbona Han_ above its entrance door. Smoke was drifting out of the tall chimney.

“This is for another day,” Giacomo mused. “We stick out too much. It’s better not to be seen.”

Should they be discovered investigating a Muggle establishment tied to a necromantic site, the young man’s reputation would suffer greatly, and Albus would gain additional trouble he hardly needed. The older wizard nodded.

“I wonder what happened to the poor soul they sacrificed. Do you reckon they buried the body in the forest?”

Giacomo shook his head, motioning for Albus to retreat from the path into the tree line, where they could Apparate.

“I don’t think the victim is here, or I would have been informed. Jetmir—the Obliviator—would have sold me such a vital piece of information without any prompting. He is one of those who would sell their own mother if need be—which, naturally, serves our purpose just right. As to what happened to the body, now there’s a question. Personally, I’d tend to think it wasn’t in one piece any more when they disposed of it. Whoever performed the ritual was sloppy and tried to get rid of the evidence in haste. In fact, I’m a little surprised at this British Dark wizard, who calls himself a _lord_ —I would have expected something more… thorough.”

He took in the Englishman’s face, which was tinged with green in the light of the rising sun, and caught himself.

“I’m sorry, Albus,” he said, concerned. “Necromancy is rather awful. Very few wizards would opt for it, and those who do are not right in the head.”

“That’s what Gellert said many years ago. And I agree, this carelessness is somewhat out of character for Voldemort—though the fault might lie with his follower.” Albus gently squeezed the other wizard’s shoulder, never slowing their pace. “Thank you for arranging this, Giaco. You have helped me immensely, and I appreciate the time, money and effort it cost you. Thank you. Hopefully, the information we have gleaned here will allow for a thorough plan. Everything will only get more precarious from now on. Last night, Harry Potter’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire, making him a second Hogwarts champion.”

Giacomo stopped dead in his tracks.

“Cavolo!” he muttered under his breath. “Such a blow to your name. Are you sure they’re not after you, Albus? You realise, of course, that the tournament is an international event. This is an attack on both the British Ministry of Magic and on you personally. A perfect pretext to—well, remove you from your office, should they so desire. I’m sorry.”

“If only this had been the case.” They had started walking again, and Albus entertained a brief fantasy in which he alone had been targeted by the previous evening’s events. “I’ll soothe the matters as well as I can, but I’m just afraid for the boy. He is only fourteen, and they have thrust him into a near-lethal competition.”

Giacomo sighed, impatient for the first time.

“Do you know what your biggest weakness is, Albus?” There was angry sternness to his tone, as if he had instinctively assumed the role of a parent. “You care too much about others and too little about yourself. If you fall, the boy will have no protection left. Don’t be fooled: even if his name was placed in the goblet on that incompetent lord’s orders, your ill-wishers from the Ministry won’t miss their opportunity. You need to address Wizengamot. Ask Gia to help you compose a speech if you are pressed for time, but don’t give them a pretext for removing you from your position as the headmaster of Hogwarts. If you are not careful, that’s exactly what will happen next, and then, the boy will truly have no one to look out for him.”

A little bashfully, the English wizard turned aside to hide his smile. He found it endearing when younger people educated or protected him. Besides, this conversation confirmed just how unfit he had always been for the political arena.

“You are right, Giaco. I will ask for Gia’s help. I hardly know where to start untangling this, and Voldemort counts on as much. But I will address Wizengamot.”

Appeased, his son offered him more words of encouragement and a promise to pass Albus’s love to his wife and children. It was time for them to part ways: the new day had descended, and a busy one it was bound to be. They exchanged one last embrace.

Turning on the spot, Albus visualised in his mind the village that lay closest to Nurmengard. It was also situated on the slope of a mountain and was surrounded by wild and fragrant woods. A bakery lay at its centre. For reasons that had nothing to do with personal affections, or so he was convinced, he considered the scent inside a traditional _Bäckerei_ to be among his favourite smells. He greeted the smiling lady at the counter and ordered two coffees before settling for a bag of fresh pastries: savoury ones for Gellert, sweet ones for himself. Thus armed, he Disapparated straight to the prison tower.

The guards’ gazes lingered wistfully on the baked goods, but they raised no objection when he carried them upstairs. Gellert was awake; he appeared to have got up a while ago. One look at him filled Albus with comfort.

“Morgen, Schatz,” he called, resorting to his favourite pet name.

“Good morning indeed.” The German wizard cast a curious glance at the pastries. “I knew you’d come today—had a dream about it. Yet something tells me you have quite some news to share with me, the early hour notwithstanding.”

“I wonder where to begin.” Setting their breakfast down, Albus could not hold back a rather vulnerable gesture. He enfolded his lover in his arms, pressing his nose against the latter’s neck. “I’ll start by telling you the good news. We should be able to get more candles very soon—Justice is looking into it. I’m so happy they help.”

“I am very pleased to hear it.” Gellert smiled. “Thank you.”

Then he noticed the manner in which the Englishman’s hands were trembling on his shoulders.

“No matter how bad it is, you can tell me, Albus. I’d like to hear it from you first.”

The last word did not escape the other wizard’s attention. If Gellert had found a way of listening in on the guards’ chatter, one had to conclude Aurora’s candle possessed unparalleled properties, permitting the use of wandless magic inside the cell. The thought was beyond uplifting. Albus drew a breath.

“I believe I know who sent me the blank note. But it will be best if I start from the beginning. The foreign delegations arrived the day before yesterday. The Beauxbatons party is fairly pleasant, even if a little lofty—at least towards us, the English savages. As for the headmaster of Durmstrang, he is essentially the Ukrainian version of Ignat… though he loves his school even less than Ignat must have done back in the day.” He sighed. “Last night, the school champions’ names were drawn. Everything went well until a fourth name emerged from the Goblet of Fire—Harry Potter’s name with _Uagadou_ scribbled beneath it. This means Tom Riddle has been able to infiltrate Hogwarts and plant a Death Eater in plain view, most likely among my staff. Moments later, Barty Crouch as good as confessed he needed my help. And then, before the night was over, Giacomo contacted me. He had found out about the site of a recent necromantic ritual in Albania and arranged a viewing, which I’ve just returned from. It wasn’t legal by any means, but I believe… there is little doubt this is Tom’s work.”

Gellert had listened in silence, his brows furrowed. “Do you think you can show me what you saw in Albania?”

Albus swallowed but nodded, placing the tips of his fingers on Gellert’s cheeks as they locked eyes. Legilimency, he had learned in the times of his youth, was performed most smoothly when accompanied by physical touch. He felt the German wizard’s presence pervade his mind and brought his memories to the surface, displaying the sights of devastation, the sense of Dark magic in the air, as well as the indentations in the ground.

A long instant later, Gellert withdrew, absorbed in thought.

“I’m sorry I made you relive it, but it’s better to do so early on.”

Suddenly, his expression morphed from one of intense focus to one of sheer amusement. At Albus’s confusion, he positively burst into laughter. It took the Englishman a few seconds to catch on; they knew each other intimately after all.

“You agree with our son, do you not?” he divined. “About Lord Voldemort’s incompetence.”

At this, Gellert succeeded in subduing his mirth.

“He looks strong. Giacomo D’Angelli. You have done a good job of raising him—or nurturing him into what he is now.”

“Thank you.” Affectionately, Albus linked their fingers together. “Just wait until I show you his daughter, Gioella. She has now formally entered politics, and her program is dedicated to advancing the Italian Squibs’ rights; that is the first step. Their family is determined to help your vision come true, and I couldn’t be prouder.”

“Poor girl,” Gellert smirked. “I hope her father has at least advised her to stay careful. Ideas of this sort sound good on paper while in reality… well, suffice to say, I’ve learned the hard way that the second you oppose the prevailing opinion, you will be branded _Undesirable Number One_.”

“They are careful, taking it one step at a time. I’ll be going to one of her speeches in Rome and will show you everything afterwards.” The banter had helped the Englishman calm himself. “But tell me, what amused you so?”

For once, the German wizard’s features reflected a feeling of shame.

“I’m sorry, Albus; it’s the sense of humour we, Dark wizards, share, I suppose. Remember Dieter’s strong dislike of Necromancy as a practice? Did he ever get a chance to elaborate why he detested it?”

“Because it always goes wrong: no one comes back to the world of living in exactly the same shape as before their death. And this case is likely no exception.”

“Well, to put it more simply, Dieter hated it for being both unreliable and unethical. Knowing Dieter, it was mostly for its unethical side. But as practices go, it’s among the most unreliable ones too. This might be a part of our German mentality—even though we have quite a few disagreements across the regions, there are traits that will always unite us, and here is one of them: we want everything to work well. And the only way to ensure something works properly is to take personal responsibility for it. In Necromancy, however, it’s impossible because no witch or wizard is powerful enough to achieve such a feat on their own. So you have no choice but to rely on the higher forces: deities, spirits, whichever you want to call them.”

Gellert paused before carrying on.

“You asked what amused me so. Let me explain: if a Dark wizard decides to go through with a necromantic ritual, he has to be well aware of the higher forces he will be dealing with. You already know what the most important, the most fundamental rule of Necromancy is: a life for a life, so that the balance would be maintained. Except there’s more to it. The deities you summon and appeal to need to be… pleased with your sacrifice, for the lack of a better term. If your offering doesn’t satisfy them, the whole thing will usually go terribly wrong—if you are not careful, you can easily wind up dead yourself. Now should you be successful—rarely the case, but it happens—the ritual will unleash destructive energies that will wipe out everything alive around you. Muggle history is riddled with unexplained catastrophes: entire patches of woods erased from existence, flocks of birds dropping dead from the sky, huge marine mammals washing out dead on the shore; I could go on. There are even places Muggles believe to be cursed or haunted to this day because very Dark magic transpired there. Here, on the other hand… Well, all our former star pupil seems to have achieved are a few dead spiders and some broken trees. I hope you see now why it amused me.”

By the end of Gellert’s clarification, Albus could not help chuckling. Granted, there was nothing comical about Necromancy or Lord Voldemort’s ambition, but framing the matter in this fashion called for humour.

“They say Wormtail, his follower, is with him,” he reflected. “I believe he might be the one to blame for the sloppiness we just witnessed. And imagine him reading complicated Tahitian incantations with a heavy English accent.”

Gellert nodded, more amused than ever.

“I believe it is safe to assume the ritual didn’t go entirely as Lord Voldemort had planned.”

For a moment, they snickered, picturing a rather pitiful display of magic by a pitiful Death Eater. Then without a warning, an idea shot through Albus’s mind, and his smile vanished, his eyes open wide.

“Gellert… If the ritual failed and Voldemort didn’t recover the body he coveted… Is this why Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire? Did Tom learn his lesson, so to say? Could he believe that sacrificing Harry, his greatest enemy, would please the deities and guarantee a full body and a return to power?”

The other wizard froze, his posture alert.

“Albus, you’ve said it!” he exclaimed. “How did I not see it before? Harry Potter is going to be kidnapped—it has to be his plan. Think about it: he likes games, doesn’t he? Everything you’ve told me about him suggests he does nothing in vain. Putting Harry Potter’s name in the Goblet of Fire makes it look as if someone were attempting to kill the boy and disguise it as an accident; but don’t you see, it’s a mere smokescreen to keep _you_ busy! The international scandal, all the Ministry officials you will have to answer to, fussing over school protection, anticipating which new _accident_ you could possibly prevent during the competition—all of it has been designed to keep you out of the way. They will wait for you to rush off and leave the boy alone so that they can snatch him. Go now, Albus. Find a way to put the Tracking Charm on him. Use any object he carries on him at all times, anything. The kidnapper is already at Hogwarts, studying his habits… and yours.”

Albus felt the tremor return to his hands. The realisation that Harry alone stood between Voldemort and his new body had made his blood run cold.

“I will,” he promised in a shaky voice. “But Gellert, if I’m not mistaken, Barty Crouch sent me the blank note—several clues testify to it. His owl—a big, aggressive fellow—disappeared some weeks ago. He is not entirely himself: he’s been ill, overworked, and… oddly polite towards me. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have eaten me alive the minute Harry’s name came out of the goblet. Instead, he watched absent-mindedly as everyone indulged in a shouting match. What if… shouldn’t we check his place? If there is the slightest chance Voldemort has taken over his home…”

“Too many assumptions, Albus,” Gellert objected soberly. “Barty Crouch might know something, yes, but he is not the one at Hogwarts, carefully planning a kidnapping operation as we speak. Make sure no one can lead Harry Potter out of the castle without your knowledge, and do it right now. He is an official champion, which means the place will soon be swarming with the Ministry employees, journalists, even other students’ irate parents, for all I know. You won’t be able to keep track of all the outsiders on the premises, not even with the amount of portraits, ghosts, and house-elves you have at your disposal. In the meantime, Harry Potter is but a teenager, who will trust a stranger easily enough.”

Albus nodded; he knew his lover was right.

“All right.” Leaning in for a brief hug, he kissed Gellert’s forehead. “I will be back. Drink my coffee for me, love. I think I know what to do.”

He entered his office not a second too soon. The portraits, particularly Everard’s likeness, were agitated.

“The Minister for Magic has been asking to speak to you for the last half an hour.”

This had to be a first—according to Albus’s pocket watch, it was but twenty past eight.

“I cannot receive him just yet,” he said apologetically. “Ten more minutes.”

Everard had barely walked out of his frame before marching straight back in.

“I’m afraid Mr Fudge insists on an immediate consultation with you.”

With a sigh, Albus eased himself into his throne-like chair. “Tell him I have Rita Skeeter in my office, and I’m doing my best to send her away.”

This admittedly unimaginative ruse did the trick.

“He will wait,” Everard announced half a minute later.

“Good.” Albus cleared his throat. “Lompy!”

The head house-elf materialised with a pop, bowing with his distinctive professional smile the headmaster yet had to encounter in another member of his kind.

“Lompy, I have an unusual question to ask you. Among the house-elves who clean the Gryffindor Tower, is there one you trust above all others? One you would trust with your own life?”

His inquiry was met with inscrutable silence. After a brief deliberation, however, the elf nodded.

“There is Villy, sir. Lompy can promise Villy won’t let master down.”

“Excellent. I would like to speak to Villy at once. Thank you, Lompy.”

This female elf possessed pensive yellow eyes that seemed to hold a painful memory, perhaps even melancholy emotion. Albus felt instant sympathy for her.

“Hello, Villy. There is a task I can confide to no one but you, and its details should stay between us. Do I have your word you will keep our secret?”

“Villy will tell no one,” the elf vowed without hesitation.

He bit his lip, choosing his words cautiously. “One of the Gryffindor students, Harry Potter, is in danger, Villy. Here is what I need you to do. I will ask you to stay near him without his knowledge for the entire day. Follow him wherever he goes, observe who he talks to, check whether anyone appears to be uncommonly interested in him, and try to notice if there is an item he always carries on him—other than his wand, that is. If someone attempts to hurt him, step in at once to protect him. If someone tries to lead him out of the school grounds, stop them by all means available and come to inform me. If the day flows smoothly, you can report to me after he goes to sleep. I’m confident your findings will allow me to form a solid plan for his continuous protection.”

Villy asked no questions, nor did she manifest astonishment. She merely bowed, spared him one of her piercing glances, and Disapparated to comply. Albus sat back, his heart hammering. Now that Gellert’s strategy was in motion, he felt oddly nervous. Fortunately, there was work to do, and a lot of it, which would compose him soon enough.


	8. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

Cornelius Fudge stood in front of the fireplace, his lime green bowler hat clasped to his chest. Behind him, the emerald flames spurted out high before subsiding. He looked around him, sniffing the air for a whiff of perfume.

“Rita is gone, is she? You haven’t told her anything important, I hope, Dumbledore?”

“I declined all comment until the official interviews take place,” Albus assured him. “She eventually left. Please, have a seat, Cornelius.”

The portly wizard shuffled towards the chair in front of the desk. At this early hour, he appeared harried, though not as bad-tempered as the situation might have warranted. Albus flicked his wand, and a pot of tea with two cups and a plateful of biscuits materialised between them. It was to no avail: even as Fudge eyed them, he touched nothing.

“Bad times, Dumbledore,” he started, shaking his head. “These are very bad times. Two Hogwarts champions! It’s an international scandal; I don’t know where to even begin addressing it. Karkaroff has made sure to reach out to the Ministries of Magic in Bulgaria, Ukraine, and Norway, as well as the Durmstrang board of governors—I’ve been bombarded by owls since six o’clock… Talk about Sunday being a day of rest—barely got any sleep. How do you think it came to pass?”

The headmaster held his gaze. It was essential that he choose his words cautiously, for any indiscretion could bring about devastating consequences. The Ministry was an ever-changing web of political alliances; certain resentments, however, never faded, and Fudge’s favour protected Hogwarts from the ambitious individuals who would have liked nothing better than to claim it.

“I believe someone wishes to harm Harry, Cornelius. This wasn’t done by a teenager. Not only did the perpetrator submit the boy’s name under a fourth school; he also managed to evade the attention of all the ghosts and portraits on duty.”

“Merlin’s beard!” The minister had almost dropped his hat in dismay. “You are certain then this isn’t Mr Potter’s doing? It’s just, Dolores thought… since, you know, teenagers like to be noticed, and Mr Potter has been known to behave in a rash manner in the past—what with his escape from his aunt and uncle’s house and inflating a Muggle—well, Dolores thought it wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume this… was a practical joke of sorts.”

He glanced imploringly at Albus, hoping no doubt to receive a solution for removing Harry from the competition and issuing a formal apology to all the parties involved.

There was nothing for it: one way or another, he would find out. Delving into his top drawer, the older wizard produced the slip of paper that bore the boy’s signature.

“I wish you were right. Sadly, the truth is much more sinister. This is Harry’s own handwriting, lifted no doubt from his homework. The perpetrator knew the champions couldn’t back out of a magical contract of this nature, and he made sure Harry was bound to compete.”

Fudge groaned, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. “My dear man, this… well, it rather complicates things, doesn’t it? Who could it be? And _why_ would they do such a thing?”

It was tempting to answer sincerely… yet much too precarious. The minister was nowhere near ready to hear of Lord Voldemort’s return without palpable evidence on hand, not to mention he was the sort of man who would always opt for the path of least resistance. Albus therefore settled for a half-truth.

“I dare say it was a Death Eater. Those are the wizards who loathe Harry the most.”

The pronouncement made Fudge blanch. “A Death Eater at Hogwarts?! Surely not!”

“I do hope I’m mistaken. Naturally, it’s our priority to protect Harry and track down the culprit.”

“Hmm… yes, yes, of course, protect the child, yes…” The politician was no longer listening; behind his vague agreements, he seemed to be weighing his options, none of which proved satisfying. “I must speak to Dolores; she will have an idea, yes… She loves children—a charming woman—let me see if I can get her to Hogwarts to help you. Yes, ahem, so… how did they succeed in creating a binding magical contract for Harry? I’m sorry, you must have mentioned it already; I’m just so shocked. Merlin’s beard!” He shifted with an uneasy grimace. “Does… err, Harry know anything? Has he been questioned thoroughly?”

While Albus had expected to hear something of this nature, the idea of Dolores Umbridge setting foot at his school elicited a single thought: _over my dead body_. In essence, that witch was as vile as Vinda Rosier—only, she did not have the latter’s good looks to deceive her victims.

“Yes, we have questioned Harry,” he said neutrally. “Last night’s events came as a harrowing shock to him. If I may, Cornelius: at a time like this, the entire world’s eyes will be fixed on our country, _and_ the Ministry. Now more than ever, you will need Miss Umbridge by your side. Her work ethics will be invaluable when it comes to fending off your ill-wishers.”

“Good man, you’re right! Look at me, forgetting all about my own ratings!” Fudge shook his head again, inviting the headmaster in on a joke. “You are completely right: I need Dolores now more than ever. She’s lovely, you know—eh, professionally speaking, that is,” he added quickly. “My best employee, she is: very thorough and loyal, and has the Ministry’s best interests at heart. It’s more than you can say about most witches nowadays… Where was I? Oh, yes, you didn’t quite clarify how they succeeded in creating a binding magical contract for Harry Potter without his knowledge. Could you please repeat that part? I will tell Dolores word for word.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s complete submission to _Dolores_ , Albus pointed towards the slip of paper.

“The perpetrator needed Harry’s authentic signature. To this effect, he likely stole one of the boy’s essays and plucked the name, as well as the name of a fourth wizarding school, scribbled in Harry’s handwriting. The moment the goblet made its choice, the magical contract came into force.”

“May I?” Fudge was frowning at the parchment, intent on examining it.

With a nod, Albus waited for the inevitable to happen. It did not take a minute.

“Hmm, Uagadou. Interesting… I will ask Dolores to pull out the full list of your employees from the archives. Remind me, isn’t one of your teachers African? A Dark witch?”

“No.” Albus made a conscious effort to keep his voice from hardening; he still could not afford angering the minister. Yet _no one_ was going to hurt Aurora while he lived. “Professor Sinistra is half-Nigerian, but she is an entirely Light witch. She has played no more part in this unfortunate incident than you or I.”

Fudge considered him, and for the first time, a sympathetic smile lit his face.

“Oh, but you always want to see the best in people. Like I often say, old Crouch is too hard on you: he claims you will believe any tosh Dark wizards throw at you. I’ve set him straight—I said, Dumbledore may be a little naïve, but he’s not completely daft. But my dear man, I now feel that old Crouch, unpleasant as he is—we can be frank between ourselves, can we not?—anyway, old Crouch may have a point. You are _too_ good. And those African witches—can we really trust them? Secretive, malicious… I will have Dolores look into her. For your own good, you know.”

“You are very kind, Cornelius.” The headmaster felt himself flushing, though it was from exasperation, not gratitude. “But tell me this: even if Professor Sinistra had a reason to dislike and sabotage Harry—which she does not—why would she submit the boy’s name under her own school and thus make herself the prime suspect?”

“Ah, well, between you and me, how bright can those African wizards be? They don’t even use wands, for Merlin’s sake!” Fudge waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t you worry, Dumbledore, Dolores has a knack for making even the most slippery liars confess. You will see, if there is so much as a speck on her CV—and there is bound to be—we will unravel this whole mess soon enough. And then we’ll issue the formal apologies, and my ratings will go up. I mean, that’s beside the point, but you know, high ratings are a good thing in politics… A good thing indeed.”

Albus would have expected Dolores Umbridge alone to express such views; hearing them from Fudge’s lips shocked him. When had this gullible yet rather mild-mannered politician become so prejudiced and offensive? Between him and Karkaroff, it was difficult to decide who was more self-centred. Not all of it could be due to Umbridge’s influence either—if a man was incorruptible, not even a skilled manipulator could leave a dent in his principles.

There was much he longed to say in response. For instance, the fact that Aurora was among the purest and kindest people he had ever met and that arresting an innocent witch would mean playing right into the Death Eater’s hands, lending him free reign. He wished to point out that condemning Hagrid to Azkaban two years previously had not only traumatised the poor gamekeeper; it would have positively resulted in a catastrophe, had it not been for Harry. He was desperate to assert it was high time Fudge learned from his mistakes. Only, he had seen enough to understand his reasoning would fall on deaf ears. To protect his Astronomy teacher, he had to beat the minister at his own game.

“In that case, there is something I ought to tell you.” He leaned forward, feigning confidential familiarity. “Professor Sinistra is engaged to a Ministry official from Uagadou. I would suggest Miss Umbridge be careful—a diplomatic scandal is easy to arouse and difficult to smooth over. With all the additional work on your plate, this is the last thing the Ministry needs.”

“Oh?” Fudge blinked, genuinely surprised. “Oh, yes, in that case… hmm, such a pity. Nothing is ever easy, is it? Oh, well, we’re not getting anywhere. Harry Potter is to compete, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.” The headmaster sighed; his expression then softened into one of comforting support. “Alastor and I will keep an eye on the boy and protect him, whatever it takes. And I know Harry: he will do his utmost to succeed, danger notwithstanding. Why not use this to your advantage? If he and Cedric Diggory perform well in the tournament, it will reflect well on the entire Ministry.”

The other wizard was not mollified. “Well, I don’t see how so. You know, Dolores likes to say you shouldn’t reward rule-breakers, and I must say… such a scandal. So many owls I’ve received already, and I bet another pile is already waiting for me. Sweet Merlin… No, no, if we let him compete, if he wins… nobody will like it, that much I promise. My ratings will plummet for sure. And as much as I hate to admit it, it would be best if that… eh, Viking Krum won. We would apologise, Karkaroff would be satisfied, and he’d stop his threats of international investigations. What a shame! That affair with Harry Potter has ruined everything for us. I would otherwise have rooted for Amos’s boy. He’s bright, Amos says.”

Albus bit his lip and refrained from commenting on the prediction. “What does Barty Crouch think of all this?”

“You know, now that you mention it…” Fudge’s features cleared, as if in anticipation of juicy gossip. “I asked old Barty for help the other day, and he told me to mind my own business, that his own work was quite enough! Can you imagine? That wizard _lives_ for work. And ever since his wife passed away and the whole nasty business with his son happened—well, you know old Barty practically lives in his office; in fact, I’m positive I glimpsed a mattress there once or twice. And now, he waves me off so casually, I couldn’t believe my ears! I told Dolores all about it. That young assistant of his blushed beet red, but Barty didn’t look at me twice.”

“I see.” For an instant, Albus wavered. Were he and Gellert mistaken in postponing the search of Barty Crouch’s home? For all his faults, Fudge was right: this was most irregular where Crouch was concerned. “Last night, I had an inkling he was very unwell—ill or otherwise careworn. Given the circumstances, I had no chance to ask.”

“Barty Crouch, ill?” For the first time, the politician dissolved into chuckles. “No, no, light must have played a trick on you there, old chap. No, Barty Crouch is certainly not ill— _rude_ is what he is. More so than usual—and towards me, his Minister for Magic, of all people. Maybe I should have Dolores issue him a disciplinary warning. Yes, yes, I will do just that. This much, at least, I can fix.”

He then heaved a sigh.

“Well, I believe that will be all, old chap. I’ll take that piece of parchment with me, show it to Dolores. We are bound to find something on this African witch; I’ll let you know as soon as possible—if the owls don’t peck me apart. I swear Karkaroff has found the rudest creatures in existence; they all bite and… ahem, leave droppings behind.”

Sure enough, when he stood up, an unsightly stain on the left leg of his trousers became prominent.

“Best of luck, Cornelius.”

Albus watched him disappear in the fireplace and did not waste a second. He had to speak to Aurora before it became too late. He only hoped Harry was as safe as he had ever been with the loyal house-elf tailing his every step.

He liked visiting his Astronomy teacher: her room was light, scented with a faint fragrance, and decorated with colourful ornaments. The sound of enchanted drums purified the magic in the air. The door had been left ajar, and the witch’s huge dark eyes appeared in the aperture at the first knock.

“Come in, headmaster,” she said, smiling. “May I offer you some scones? I just finished baking them—though to tell the truth, I never know if I’ve got them right. From tea, I have rooibos orange and vanilla—which one do you prefer?”

“Orange sounds divine.” He smiled back. “Good morning, Aurora. I’m sorry for disturbing you so early, and at breakfast, no less.”

“No, no, I’m glad you’ve come.” She invited him to make himself comfortable, hitching up the sleeves of her turquoise dressing robe before heading for the kettle. “I imagine anyone else would have summoned me for a formal questioning.”

She was referring to the previous night’s events. While the staff members had been congratulating Professor Sprout, she had remained immobile, staring at the goblet, as if foreseeing trouble.

“There is no need for it,” he assured her, “having a premonition isn’t a crime. I wager that’s exactly what occurred yesterday.”

He seated himself on a fluffy chair in front of a coffee table, which showcased a curious wooden statuette: an elephant, a zebra, and a rhinoceros standing on top of each other, their muzzles emitting soft sounds. A whiff of rooibos tea carried across the room. Aurora came to join him, a tray in her hands.

“It was almost… simultaneous,” she confessed. “Dinner was delicious, and for a minute, I… I fell asleep. Olympe nudged me awake, interrupting my dream, and then, it was as if my dream was playing out again.” She grinned bashfully. “I’m not very good at this, to be completely honest: Mama Lucille suspected I’d been taught to reason like a _ti blanc_.”

Albus furrowed his brows, concerned. “What did you See?”

“I Saw the goblet turning red once more. That’s what confused me because I thought we’d already drawn all three names.”

This made sense.

“The slip of parchment that came out of the goblet had _Uagadou_ written under Harry’s name,” he admitted gravely.

Aurora’s eyes widened in shock; instinctively, she lowered her teacup. “Uagadou?”

“The culprit has a nasty sense of humour.” The headmaster shifted in his seat. “I just had a brief meeting with Cornelius Fudge. It could have gone worse, and yet… Have you ever met his undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge?”

Aurora shook her head. “No, I’ve never even been to the Ministry. You were kind enough to handle all the paperwork when I came to work here. The closest I’ve ever come to the Ministry was getting their confirmation letter, which informed me they’d received a copy of my signed contract of loyalty towards Hogwarts.”

“That’s good,” he mused. “I’m afraid Fudge possesses a prejudiced side; some of his decisions are only driven by ignorant opportunism. I’ve had to tell him a lie. I said you were engaged to a Ministry official from Uagadou—someone who would not hesitate to add to the scandal, should they even think of questioning you.”

“Oh?” This came as just as great a surprise to the witch. “They suspect me? But… surely, this is just a coincidence. It could have been any school, as long as the handwriting belonged to Harry Potter. Which it does, doesn’t it?”

One could tell she knew as little as the rest of them. While she was piecing the clues together, the full implications of his words were yet to sink in.

“What will happen to the poor boy now?” she carried on. “Harry is a good student, I know—well, not that good at Astronomy, if we are frank, but still—he excels at many subjects. Yet the other contestants have more experience, and then there are the challenges themselves… We are not allowed to help him, are we?”

It was impossible not to admire her for thinking of others’ safety first.

“Not really—I am not, at any rate, due to the Ministry’s binding agreements,” he replied, touched. “I will see what can be done, though; nothing is more important than keeping him safe.” He leaned in, taking one of her hands in his own. “However, we must keep you safe as well. There are people out there who mean harm, and Dolores Umbridge is, unfortunately, one of them. When it comes to eliminating someone exceptional or bright or popular, any pretext will do. Do you know someone in Uagadou who could corroborate my lie for your sake? The more powerful the official, the better. This way, the Ministry will leave you alone for good.”

This time, Aurora understood exactly what he meant.

“Oh… I see,” she uttered slowly. “I… I will speak to my dad… he’s bound to know someone. It’s just… I will speak to my dad. Thank you, headmaster—for warning me, and protecting me. I would never have thought something like this could happen. Thank you.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m just as stunned as you are. But I won’t let anything threaten you or Harry.” His conversation with Gellert and the crime scene he had examined in Albania floated to the forefront of his mind. “Sometimes I wonder if the world has gone insane. But then I encounter people like you or my adoptive children in Italy, and I realise every coin has two sides.”

“You have adoptive children?” This spiked her curiosity. “In Italy? How come?”

In a few words, he explained his personal history, not omitting his visit to Durmstrang nor his later reunion with both Giacomo and Justice.

“It would probably have been impossible nowadays,” he concluded regretfully. “Durmstrang is a far cry from what it used to be. Speaking of which, has Karkaroff been bothering you lately?”

“No, no, I’ve been careful not to come downstairs in the morning.” An undertone of mirth entered Aurora’s voice. “Also, the Bloody Baron helped me out once. Is it something I have you to thank for?”

“Perhaps.” He smiled. “Maybe Karkaroff is merely a satisfying target to frighten. I’d better think how we’ll tackle this problem around the Yule Ball; there won’t be… ahem, too many male dancers on hand, I’m afraid. Maybe we ought to resort to the old-fashioned custom—the dance cards. Having every dance assigned in advance to a specific partner. Not very spontaneous, but old customs have their charm.”

The young witch flashed him a smile.

“You are devious, headmaster. I like it.”

There was comfortable silence while they munched scones with cream and jam and sipped their tea. Having eaten nothing since the feast, Albus fought to mind his manners and stop at two scones.

“If I may, how do your premonitions manifest?” he asked. “Are they flashes of the imminent future?”

Aurora nodded. “In Sakrémaji, it is possible to train your _ti bon ange_ , for the lack of a better word. Eventually, some wizards become very proficient at it. I, on the other hand, have never really got the hang of it. I only see the glimpses deities send me when I’m asleep.” She smiled then. “I’m not complaining, though; in Sakrémaji, you can’t demand any powers that you don’t naturally possess—it’s one of the fundamental rules of this magic, if a frequently misunderstood one. I’m grateful to have what I have.”

“That is a wise approach. I feel as though Western magic has distanced itself from spirituality long ago, focusing on raw dynamics. At Durmstrang, on the other hand, they used to provide a more thorough and rounded education. I wish I’d studied the astral projection: releasing your _ti bon ange_ into the realms… A dangerous practice, true, but a humbling one nonetheless.”

“Oh, yes, it’s very special,” she agreed. “But one has to learn it well since there are higher magicks all around us—and witch-hunters are always on the lookout. Usually, one learns to exercise caution first, and then it’s safe to release your _ti bon ange_ into the world. Of course, one must never use those skills to cause harm. It’s not that different from the Apparition etiquette, but very special still.”

Wiping his hands on a napkin, Albus picked his teacup, his eyes wistful. “I hope one day, Hogwarts will become ready for such subjects.” It was an optimistic wish, but one he could not discard. “If you don’t mind my question, what is your Haitian mentor like?”

“Mama Lucille?” Aurora clarified enthusiastically. “She’s quite the witch, I’ll tell you that. A remarkable woman, one of the kind. She is not to be crossed, but not for the reasons the MACUSA would have you believe; she is openly against the Statute of Secrecy, you see. That’s why the MACUSA has been conducting entire campaigns to dehumanise her, so that people would believe her to be a dangerous Dark witch. And in all honesty, she _is_ dangerous, but fair too—she respects the art of Sakrémaji and teaches the others to follow in her footsteps. I have nothing but humble admiration and respect for Mama Lucille.”

“If I am fortunate, I might meet her one day,” came his warm answer.

If mambo Lucille was opposed to the Statute of Secrecy—and Haiti was notorious for not enforcing this ancient law—he could vividly imagine the backlash she had suffered from the part of the MACUSA. Seraphina Picquery had been in power since the start of the century, and while she had lost her presidency in the late twenties and had later relinquished political dominance, she obstinately refused to retire. Drifting from post to post, she maintained her views on the pure-blood supremacy… which inevitably entailed the Statute of Secrecy, for not even American wizards—most of whom were pure-bloods—could consider exposing themselves to Muggles without abolishing their strict segregation. The political reasons aside, Albus had a personal reason to dislike Madam Picquery. Had Gellert’s sentence been hers to determine, the German wizard would not be alive at this point.

“I vitally disagree with the Statute of Secrecy,” he declared. “Only, I believe its breach has to be gradual, controlled, and well-thought through.”

“Oh, absolutely.” There was solemnity to Aurora’s approval. “I mean, Muggles already know magic exists. It’s more about teaching magic the right way, as Mama Lucille does it.” She sighed. “It’s such a mess, isn’t it? All the magical communities go their separate ways. Take Uagadou—the whole country is even more secretive than Durmstrang. I’m not sure any more if it’s a good thing.”

“Did your mother find it difficult to live there?” he enquired, interested. “She is a Muggle, I believe—I’m sorry if I’m mistaken.”

“That’s right; she’s from Cornwall,” the witch explained with a nod. “Dad is a magus from Nigeria. I believe they were meant to be. Dad tried to… well, warn her, I suppose; he said she would find his way of life to be a challenge. My mum thought he was only referring to his colour; she had no idea there was more to it. And there was _so_ much more. Then again, it’s only because dad is a Nigerian magus that Uagadou let us in as refugees when the war started in Britain. I saw it all from a child’s perspective; everything was new to me. When you get admitted to Uagadou, you don’t learn magic straight away: your first year of studies is dedicated to learning the Uadou ways, language, and culture. Outsiders tend to forget it’s an entire country we are talking about, hidden in plain sight and open to everyone on the African continent—in exceptional cases, even from beyond—who is willing to embrace the Uadou laws and customs. The transition was easy for me because I was a child, but my mum… she missed Cornwall and felt very lonely, being a Muggle among wizards and living so far away from home, in a strange place with strange people who practiced such strange habits. She insisted I learn to bake scones from scratch without magic. It used to annoy me. Now I understand she did this so that I would never forget my English roots and would respect my _non-maji_ heritage as much as I have naturally grown to respect my magical one. My mum and dad love each other very deeply. This love is what held us all together during the hard days.”

“Love is the most beautiful, the most powerful magic we have,” Albus said, moved by her story. He reached out to gently press her fingers once more. “Your parents must be very proud of you. And it would be wonderful to have a subject here at Hogwarts that would teach our students about the wizarding schools across the world. One day, when the scandal dies down…”

The young witch responded by squeezing his hand back with equal gentleness.

“I’m very sorry, headmaster,” she said sincerely. “I was very excited about this tournament. After everything Mama Lucille has taught me, I understand how important it is for us to accept and respect each other, even if it’s only as fellow witches and wizards. The tournament would otherwise have been such a perfect opportunity to get to know each other. And now, with the scandal… It’s a pity. And I am truly very sorry.”

She bit her lip and spoke no more. Both were conscious of the fact that the international turmoil, which stemmed from Harry’s name being placed in the Goblet of Fire, would hamper the cooperation between the three prominent European schools of magic for the decades to come.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of paperwork: there were meetings to arrange, letters to post, the teachers’ reports to peruse, and details of the future events to settle. Albus took lunch in his office while poring over stacks of documents. Towards three in the afternoon, an owl brought him a _Confidential_ envelope from Fudge. It contained a note from the minister, as well as Aurora’s CV, which he found annotated in pink ink.

Two straight lines highlighted the most recent entry in the section labelled _Education_ :

_1985-1987: Study of Sakrémaji under the tutelage of mambo Lucille R. A. Le Fleur, Haiti_

The last word had been circled and connected by an arrow to a comment written in Dolores Umbridge’s own hand:

_Unregulated community without a proper Ministry of Magic, at the mercy of competing priests with different degrees of practice of the Dark Arts in front of Muggles_

Another circle had been drawn around mambo Lucille’s name. Umbridge’s verdict left no room for interpretation:

_Dangerous Dark witch, blacklisted by the MACUSA, evaded arrest since the 1950s!!!_

Arching an eyebrow at the pink exclamation marks peppered throughout the text, Albus peered at Fudge’s note.

_The case looks clear-cut to me_ , it proclaimed. _With occupations like this, she was lucky to find such prestigious employment. When this is over, we really need to talk about your employees—Hogwarts is the only school we have, and its residents should reflect our community with the dignity it deserves. Don’t take it as criticism, old chap; you must have thought, as usual, you were extending a helping hand, but some witches and wizards are beyond saving, and it’s not your fault. Try to find out—as discreetly as you can—how influential that fiancé of hers is. If he holds one of the lower positions in Uagadou, Dolores is confident she can avoid a diplomatic rift. Trust me, arresting this witch will improve the public mood and put a stop to the international complaints._

Scowling in disgust, the headmaster brushed the two sheets of parchment aside. His gaze landed on Aurora’s smiling picture at the top of her CV, and he fleetingly wondered whether the witch’s youth and beauty had sufficed to trigger Umbridge’s jealous fury. As much as it frustrated him, there was nothing he could do until Aurora’s father got involved.

He buried himself in the Arithmancy class register. Each of the teachers had sent him a weekly report, and he intended to read them all by dinnertime before dedicating himself to a fresh batch of correspondence. Such was the plan, at least: a plan that did not take into account his exhaustion or his mind’s determination to linger on the disturbing sights he had glimpsed in Albania. He never noticed when the words and numbers blurred before his eyes, his fingers releasing the quill.

A long while of dark and confused dreams later, Albus jolted awake, his senses alert. Someone was in the office with him, having just Apparated with a loud pop. He straightened up, wincing at his pounding headache, and hastily adjusted his spectacles, which had cut into his face while he had been asleep.

Villy, the loyal house-elf he had instructed to protect Harry from afar, was observing him with alarmed yellow eyes.

“Forgive me, Villy.” He cleared his throat. “I must have dosed off—and for longer than I thought. Has Harry already gone to bed?”

The elf nodded, ready to share her day’s events. Harry, she announced, had spent his Sunday in Miss Granger’s company, first taking a walk by the lake before posting a letter to his godfather. After lunch, he had taken refuge in the solitude of the Quidditch Pitch and had gone to bed early. Much of his distress was due to his argument with his closest friend, Ronald Weasley, from the night before. The boys no longer spoke to each other.

Albus listened restlessly. Could it be the undercover Death Eater had managed to poison young Weasley’s mind? The idea was gone as quickly as it had come—that boy’s behaviour was the product of childish envy, pure and simple.

“Is there an item Harry carries on him at all times?”

“Harry Potter wears a watch, sir. He puts it on first thing in the morning.”

This was excellent news. Pulling out his wand, Albus requested that the object be fetched, and Villy obliged. The watch was a worn one with a creased wristband, but it was in fine working condition, which meant Harry would continue wearing it out of habit. It was the ideal accessory to enchant for the boy’s protection.

With a few flicks of the Elder Wand, the Tracking Charm was in place, and Villy disappeared to return the watch to Harry’s bedside table. Pleased that something had gone right at last, Albus stood up. If he were to finish the day’s workload, he needed a breath of fresh air; the courtyard would do.

It was late, but not everyone had yet retired for the night. On the second floor, Alastor Moody’s voice came floating from his office. 

“Albus, old mate, are you all right?”

The headmaster turned and saw the Auror standing at the open door, both eyes fixed on him.

“You look unwell.”

“I’m all right.” Albus pressed a hand to his forehead, wishing his headache away. “Truly, I’m fine. I was going to tell you… I think our most pressing issue has been solved.”

“You mean Potter?” Alastor limped closer.

“That’s right. I believe Harry is in danger of being kidnapped. After some deliberation, I put a Tracking Charm on him—this way, no one can lead him out of the castle grounds without my knowledge.” He smiled through the pain. “I hope this might make your job a little easier.”

Moody seemed taken aback by his assessment. “You think he will be kidnapped? But isn’t it more likely they are trying to harm Potter and disguise it as an accident, like we discussed?”

“It’s what I thought at first.” Albus shook his head. “It’s an illusion they want us to believe. In reality, I’m positive they are waiting for the coast to clear, waiting for us to tackle the aftermath of the scandal, so that Harry is left unprotected. I can’t take any chances.”

For a moment, Alastor said nothing; he pondered the news. It was with a bemused expression that he expelled a breath.

“It… makes sense. Damn!” He made a gesture of disbelief. “Good deduction there, old friend. And to think I didn’t realise it! I’m getting old… _You_ should be the Auror.”

“Don’t say that,” the headmaster objected softly. “I didn’t work it out on my own. Two minds are always better than one.”

He could only pray the same applied to the matter of Aurora’s safety. One complication had been lifted off their shoulders; another one remained to be dealt with.


	9. Grim Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

There was no time to get accustomed to a life on tenterhooks. As early as the next morning, Albus was compelled to fend off a battalion of journalists, who showered him with invites, demanding a permission to interview one of the champions, if not Harry in person. Letters from all over Europe piled up on his desk; among the very few compassionate ones, he found a note from Jean-Yves, the previous headmaster of Beauxbatons, which elicited a genuine smile. Worst of all were the politicians’ missives.

Ever since Giacomo had warned him of the gravity of the situation, Albus had accepted his advice and did not delay in visiting Gia d’Angelli in Rome. Together, they composed a thorough speech he later delivered in Wizengamot, and only in retrospect could he appreciate just how instrumental this initiative had been in saving his position. As he returned from Gia’s office, his pocket filled with sheets of draft, he was informed of having narrowly missed an irate Amos Diggory, who had spent two hours waiting for him before returning to the Ministry in a state of great frustration. It was but a postponement of the conflict, but Albus felt relieved nonetheless.

A comprehensive speech was not all he brought back from Italy: three indigo candles had been procured by a thoughtful and resourceful Justice. He was delighted to give them to Gellert. Whenever his schedule allowed, he and the German wizard would discuss the events at hand and plan together. Albus knew he was fortunate to have his lover’s emotional support and receive his children’s help: their presence was more precious to him than words could describe.

Within a week, his joy was amplified by another piece of news. Alerted by the Ministry’s threat, Aurora’s father had risen to the occasion and secured the alliance of an ambassador stationed in Uagadou. This wizard personally wrote to Cornelius Fudge to vouch for his “fiancée’s” innocence and express his trust in the Ministry’s equity—as clear a message as diplomacy permitted. By choice or force, Umbridge desisted from blaming Aurora for the international scandal.

Harry’s safety, however, was a different matter. It was a fear that did not let the headmaster relax even at night, for no one could predict when Lord Voldemort’s spy might attempt to kidnap the boy. As effective as the Tracking Charm was, it could only alert Albus to the abduction; the intervention itself would then have to be instantaneous. All would be lost, should the Death Eater succeed in leading Harry outside of the castle’s anti-Apparition wards. With Fawkes’s help, Albus felt confident he would save Harry in time; still, this permanent state of vigilance was taking a toll, and seeing the poor boy suffer was a torment in itself. Aside from facing unknown dangers, Harry was constantly being accused of cheating and attention-seeking, and his closest friend had distanced himself. It was enough cause for madness.

Only, the first task was approaching as well. Everything was almost ready for the dragons’ arrival—a fourth animal had quickly been added to the count—and lodgings had been arranged for their handlers. While the extent of Harry’s courage was well-known, Albus could not help it: his vision would blur every time he pictured the fourteen-year-old child face to a dragon. Yet there was nothing he could do as long as the Ministry’s contract remained in force.

A fleeting reprieve came unexpectedly, granting him a few hours away from the tension. It was the day before the Wand weighing ceremony, and a free morning loomed ahead with no meetings to attend until nearly three in the afternoon. After some hesitation, Albus decided against his paperwork routine. He had made a promise to Gia, and it was time to fulfil it and visit an old friend. He took his cloak, said goodbye to Fawkes, and made his way out of Hogwarts. His path led to sunny Liguria.

Few British wizards were aware the Ollivanders were, in fact, Italian, even though a branch of the family had moved to London centuries ago to be quickly claimed by an enthusiastic English community. Their pure-blood line still remained among the oldest ones in the world, dating from the times of ancient Rome, and one only had to behold their opulent estate in Liguria to realise they had never forgotten their roots. In this sense, Garrick Ollivander from Diagon Alley was something of an exception: his lifestyle was modest, for the art of wandmaking had become his entire life; he could not care less about political games. His one resemblance to his Italian cousin, the matriarch Olivia Ollivander, lay in their fine features.

Albus walked down the garden lane, drinking in the scent of the sea. The villa presiding over the enclosure of wand trees was as elegant as he remembered: an airy Renaissance building ornamented with statues. Yet despite the charm of this hilly landscape and the magic brimming within the plantation, a sense of abandon and melancholy had settled in. A lonely wizard in a straw hat was bent over a flowerbed, almost blending in with his surroundings. Bowtruckles were clinging to his gardening gloves, as if to climb up his hands. At Albus’s approach, he glanced up with an amiable smile, and they exchanged a _Buongiorno_ before he resumed his task. A little uneasy, the Englishman strode on. He knew that wizard was no gardener: he was Olivia’s husband.

The door opened on the witch herself. She was the same age as Albus, although she looked younger—not even the lines on her face nor the grey in her hair could lessen her dignified beauty. Once his romantic rival, she was now a dear friend of his.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." She held out a hand, which he kissed. "About time you came to visit me. Where would you like to have tea, in the parlour or in the garden?"

"I have no preference—I am fond of both," he smiled.

"Inside it is then. Come in."

Without being summoned, a house-elf appeared by their side, and Olivia gave him her orders, leading Albus into the tea parlour. She was wearing a long creamy dress with a floral pattern, her hair woven into a knot.

"How is Gellert?"

"He is feeling better." He was pleased to have this piece of good news to offer her. "One of my teachers has given me candles with a powerful spell that purifies the magic in his cell. They have been beneficial—I only wish I’d known of them earlier."

"That's good."

They reached the parlour—a light room with a terrace door that opened on the garden—and took seats around the small table, where tea and pastries had materialised.

"And how have you been?” Her hazel eyes took in his careworn expression. “I’ve heard rather troubling news: that famous boy you look after was elected to compete."

"It's a disaster,” he confessed heavily. "Ever since the school year started, I've received warning after warning, and it’s a mere beginning. I'm afraid Britain is heading into a new wave of clashes and violence." His gaze followed the motions of the teapot, enchanted to pour tea into the delicate cups. "If the situation escalates, it might become dangerous for Garrick to linger in London. It would be safest if he kept a low profile or even went abroad."

"Yes, indeed," Olivia mused. "Cousin Garrick might be of no use to our family, but to a Dark wizard… a wandmaker could be valuable." She smiled then, a bitter smile. "But don't get your hopes up, Albus. The Ollivander men have always been idiots. Garrick is a bloody idiot too."

Startled by her tone, Albus set down his cup and covered her hand with his.

"Sadly, it's often the case: women end up having to do all the rational thinking."

His jest did little good, for she was not listening. Behind the terrace door, her husband could be glimpsed in the garden, his gloved hands worrying soil.

"Look at him." There was now pain in her voice, as well as bitterness. "He thinks he's a house-elf. He calls me _signora_. But he, at least, is obedient. When I ask him to serve me tea, he does. When I ask him to wash the linen, he does. When I tell him to plant new trees, he does it as well. He is not opposed to fetching my house slippers. If I told him to go and hang himself, he'd do that too."

She laughed, turning away from the meek wizard, who was attempting to shake off a stubborn Bowtruckle. And at last, as he looked into her pained eyes, Albus understood. Dementia. This was what had happened to her husband, what gnawed on his mind day after day. He was so young yet. And the witch was alone. Even her grown son was of no consolation.

Olivia’s tragedy stemmed from her life-long love for Gellert, born in the days of their studies at Durmstrang. Ironically, it was her noble birth and inheritance that had stood in the way of any future they might have shared: sole heiress of the Ollivander Estate, she had been obliged to marry the wizard of her parents’ choice. For a while, she had found solace in her only son, named after the man she loved, but she had been disappointed once more. Her Gilbert was a young man with a sensitive nature and artistic inclinations, a musician. A perfect son for any mother who had not hoped to raise a bold, dynamic, charismatic politician.

After a short pause, the witch continued, "Gilbert is not as obedient, and that is a problem. Here is my advice: keep an eye on Garrick. He has grown roots in that dusty little shop of his. If he disappears, it will most likely mean the poor idiot has been kidnapped."

"I will." Albus exhaled, contemplating her with growing concern. "You've been alone for too long, Olivia. You are unhappy. Let me take you out of here so that you can, once again, breathe fresh air and enjoy action."

"What action, Albus?" Somewhere behind her resignation, he detected a note of plea. "It's over for me. And it's partly your fault."

"Nothing is over," he insisted gently. "Your world is not confined to this estate. Do you know for whom it really is over? The Rosiers—serves them right—as well as the Lestranges, the Averys, and quite a few English pure-blood families. The Blacks still have a chance. But you, Olivia, are at the heart of a flourishing business, and your son is already a father. You have the right to live for yourself now. And I know just the cause that might interest you. Durmstrang needs help."

"Don't tell me. The Slavic fraction has elected a known criminal to represent them?" Olivia seemed unperturbed. "I've heard the rumours, of course; everybody has. How bad is it? Or rather, don't tell me; curiously enough, my only entertainment comes from a d'Angelli these days."

It was devastating to see how deeply depression had affected her. Albus would never forget the vivacious, strong-willed girl who had rendered him jealous for one life-changing evening. Now, misery had eclipsed her love of Durmstrang.

"Gia is a good girl," he objected. "She works tirelessly to make Gellert's vision come true."

"A good girl." The witch rolled her eyes. "So I've noticed. She's being tutored well—maybe without even realising how much. She has managed to stay out of my immediate wand reach too, quite adeptly so: she comes either too late, or too early, or with a crowd of admirers. Not that I’d curse her in public—no, my best hope is for a deranged killer to slay her with an axe in a dark alley one day." She smiled. "It's frustrating, really: I have just enough strength to strangle her without resorting to my wand."

"And what good would it do?" the Englishman countered with a mild reproach. "Then there would be no one left in the government to introduce Gellert's ideas. You would cause a great deal of grief to her parents and me. Not to mention, it wouldn’t make you feel good, not for long. Helping us, on the other hand, would feel satisfying."

"Oh, don't ruin my fantasy, Albus," she cut in impatiently. "The monster you've created has become powerful; he guards that little bitch more ferociously than a dragon guards her eggs. I can't harm a single hair on Gia d'Angelli's head now. Had you listened to me, Giacomo would have been taken care of the same way as his father would have seen Gellert hurt. Then Giacomo would have been forced to marry whomever his father chose—and let's be honest, not many witches would have accepted such a cripple for a husband. He would have faded away. But no, you spared him, and then you went to Spain, found him a wife, and made sure the d'Angelli line lived on and prospered."

During Gellert’s trial in 1945, Giacomo’s father, the Italian Minister for Magic, had notoriously proposed cursing off the German wizard’s tongue in symbolic retribution for his “crimes”, and also to prevent anyone else from falling under Gellert’s spell. By pure luck, as it had appeared back then, he had been unsuccessful.

“I think it’s wrong to punish children for their parents’ misdeeds,” Albus stated quietly. “I loathe the man, but Giacomo had nothing to do with the trial. I’ve adopted the boy, and children deserve the best we can give them.”

“You wouldn’t understand. They are still the d’Angellis; nothing will change that. And what I cannot accept is that you’ve uplifted the d’Angellis—they are the monsters of your own creation, Albus. You could have uplifted the Ollivanders instead. You didn’t. We are the fading family of wandmakers now, nothing more.”

And there it was: pure-bloods, especially those from old families, constantly competed for power. Gellert was also a pure-blood, except his mindset was centuries ahead of his time, and his vision was one of a world with equal opportunities, devoid of predatory struggles—a world where the Ollivanders and the d’Angellis could have co-existed without seeking to supplant each other.

Albus glanced once more towards the garden. He had come to offer Olivia the position of Durmstrang’s headmistress, or at least a spot on the board of governors, for once Karkaroff escaped—as he was bound to do at a definite sign of Voldemort’s return—there would be an opportunity for overruling the Slavic fraction. He had been mistaken, though. Supervision and administration were not what Olivia wished for; it was political action she craved. And unlike him, she was fit for a politician: highborn, pragmatic, capable and influential.

“Then let me do what I should have done ages ago,” he said earnestly. “Let me help _you_. We can find a kind, loyal caretaker for your husband, which will allow you to go to Rome. You have been made for politics.”

She smiled, her large eyes sad. “Do you really think it’s not too late for me? I feel I’ve wasted so much time, trying to make something out of Gilbert, that my time has been lost. And Gilbert… well, suffice to say, his greatest ambition is to play at school concerts.” She paused. “But I won’t lie: I’d like to get out of here. To change the view. Unlike Cousin Garrick, I’m not ready to bury myself alive just yet.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’m happy to hear it, Olivia. It is far from late: you are young yet, you are beautiful, and you possess more fire and wit than half the Ministry officials put together. Go out and show them. I will help arrange anything you need.”

At this, the witch could not contain her tears.

“Who would have thought? We were rivals once—not directly opposed, perhaps, but still, competing for the love of the same man. Yet now, it is you who have come to me in the hour of need. Thank you, Albus. You know, next to you, I might never have stood a chance.”

“Olivia…” Gently pressing her fingers, he felt his memories stir, and for a moment, he could vividly recall his uncertain, emotional seventeen-year-old self. “Do you know, the first time we met—when I saw how kind and beautiful you were, the way Gellert looked at you… I Disapparated all the way back to England and sat down to cry. I don’t believe I’ve ever apologised for leaving your ball without a word. I would like to apologise now. For my rudeness, and the turmoil I left behind.”

“It’s… it’s in the past, Albus.” She swallowed. “I remember that night rather well. I was very anxious for Gellert to arrive after… you know, the event that had led to his and Dieter’s expulsion. I was hoping, that night, he would come and choose me. But he came with you. It was difficult for me—difficult not to hate you. But loving someone means respecting their choices. And I love Gellert, as do you. This does not make us enemies.”

They fell quiet, holding hands. After a while, Olivia cleared her throat.

“I imagine your most pressing reason for coming to see me is that, in the light of the recent events, you are worried for Cousin Garrick. Like I said, I don’t have good news for you: he is an idiot. He knows how to make wands, and that’s all. By all means, you can tell him that I, too, strongly recommend that he lie low or go into hiding, but will he listen? I’m sceptical.”

Albus nodded. “I ought to have a chance to speak to Garrick tomorrow: he will be there to check the champions’ wands. Even if he doesn’t listen to either of us, I will try my best. But this visit is for you alone, and I truly wish to help you.”

They spent a peaceful hour discussing Olivia’s political vision and forming plans on her move to Rome, once a caretaker was hired to look after her husband. Their parting was a cordial one, and Albus returned to Hogwarts in high spirits.

The first person he chanced across was Ludo Bagman, and he was injured. A blood-stained handkerchief was pressed to his leg.

"Albus!" the younger wizard panted in response to the headmaster’s stunned expression. "Sweet Merlin, there are animals on the loose in Hogsmeade! From the Forbidden Forest, no doubt—a large black dog, I swear, the size of a hippogriff—it just bit me! Scared poor Rosmerta half to death; I was just telling her Harry should win. Well, I'm going to the hospital wing; Poppy will patch me up in no time. Please, do take care of those animals—Merlin’s hat, even centaurs were better-behaved in my times, and they're horrible old buggers…"

Cutting his courtesies short, he limped off to have his wound healed.

"Take care, Ludo."

So this was Sirius’s answer to the news of his godson becoming a Triwizard champion. After nearly two weeks of ominous silence, he had attacked one of the judges. It was clear to Albus this was merely a taste of what the young man would gladly have done to _him_. Even plainer was the fact that they had to meet as soon as possible—tonight, if they could. It was not going to be a pleasant meeting.

His heart heavy with apprehension, the headmaster went to fetch his broom. For Harry’s sake, he would do what it took to see eye to eye with Sirius. Before this dreaded encounter, however, there was a duty to attend to.

He flew out into the chilly sky, the wind piercing him to the bones. It was the fastest manner of reaching the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, and one that afforded a breathtaking view of the sea of trees. Landing in a vast meadow, he found himself in the middle of a wooden enclosure. Wizards were securing iron pegs to the ground; others were adding fireproofing enchantments to the fence. Rolanda Hooch was present, a quill and parchment in hand; she was in charge of overseeing the preparations for the three tasks.

"Good afternoon, Rolanda." Albus left his broom on the grass and went to join her.

"Good afternoon, headmaster. Looks cosy, doesn't it? The dragons should be comfortable here. Maybe a subtle Heating Charm, what do you think? They are nesting mothers; they'll need some warmth."

"Definitely." They set out around the perimeter of the enclosure to check whether all the required protection spells had been cast. "This will be a stressful experience for them."

"I don't know who to feel sorrier for,” she confessed. “It's very cruel, what they're doing. The mothers will protect their eggs, and they'll be vicious—it's in their nature. And what exactly are our students supposed to do? Poor kids—and poor dragons. It's times like these that make me agree with Mr Scamander. How is he, by the way? Are you still in touch?"

"We are, though not as often as I would have liked. I glimpsed him and Tina in Diagon Alley over summer; they are doing well. I still haven’t had the nerve to mention the tournament to him—or the blast-ended skrewts.” He grinned sheepishly. "Foolish of me, of course. Rolf will have told him everything by now."

Rolanda shook her head. "Wizards never learn, do they? But I don't blame you; I wouldn't have dared to tell him either. Not all of us have Minerva’s courage. I'm happy to hear all is well with the Scamanders."

They said nothing for a minute, observing the men’s spellwork.

"The organisers should have changed the rules when Harry was forced to compete," Albus could not help but remark. "They may not be able to exclude him, but they ought to consider his age. Even the other three champions aren’t ready to go blindly into a task of such a nature. Improvising under pressure isn’t a matter of pure daring; it takes experience."

"I couldn't agree more." The witch bit her lip, her amber eyes fixed on Albus’s sky-blue ones. "Minerva is too proud to tell you, but… you need to talk to her. She is more worried about Mr Potter than she lets on. I know her well, know how fond of him she is—Potter could have been her grandchild. She can't help him, and it’s taking a toll on her. All this worrying, it isn't healthy. We all are worried, but Minerva needs to… to sleep and eat properly. It’s not good for anyone, such anxiety." She sighed. "I suppose it's also the fact that _everything_ seems to happen to Mr Potter. Minerva feels she is failing James and Lily’s memory—she used to be close to both."

Alarm prickled the headmaster’s skin, closely followed by guilt. Given his overflowing schedule, he had spoken little to Minerva in the past weeks; and due to his frequent absence at meals, he had failed to notice her loss of appetite as well. Yet who else did she have to confide in? Who was best placed to offer her comfort and information?

"Thank you for telling me, Rolanda. I should have thought of it myself, should have checked how she was doing. I will amend it."

The witch nodded. "Naturally, all of us are worried, Alastor included. We’ve been wondering how best to help Mr Potter without making it worse… And when I say _all of us_ , it’s without counting Professor Snape. I have to say, Alastor doesn’t seem to like him either. But you must know all about it."

Frowning slightly, Albus cast about for the right words. "Alastor thinks outside of the box. Most of the time, we are in agreement, but some of his ideas—sound ideas, in theory—I cannot endorse. It’s my duty to hold the school together and accommodate everyone including Severus. He wouldn’t be with us if I weren’t positive he is on our side."

As much as he would have liked to further discuss the topic, there was no question of sharing more. Rolanda must have divined as much; her smile was conciliatory.

"Yes, he really thinks outside of the box, Alastor does."

A blush accompanied her pronouncement, and the wizard seized this occasion to offer her a little levity.

"That being said, there is one matter he agrees on with the rest of us: he believes you are an extraordinary witch. In fact, he is rather fervent on that account."

This earned him a chuckle.

"Now, now, headmaster, don't you flatter me. I’ve seen enough to know Alastor is all about work; I doubt he ever mentions me at all. But I appreciate your gallantry all the same. And when I brought up Mr Snape, I didn’t mean to pry. Why would I? It’s common knowledge that he was associated with You-Know-Who and that you personally pardoned him. All I’m saying is that Alastor doesn’t trust him."

"I understand."

In this, Albus reflected, Moody’s stance was identical to the advice both Gellert and Giacomo had given him when he had told them of Snape’s character and past: _keep him close but don't trust him_.

"Severus may not be sympathetic towards Harry, but he can’t be blamed for the Confunded goblet. He is as innocent as poor Aurora, who immediately got accused by the Ministry. When the champions’ names were drawn, Alastor said to me his job involved suspecting everyone. _Except Rolanda_ , he added then. _She is too nice, and she likes Potter._ "

“He said that?” A truly girlish smile lit Rolanda's entire countenance. But it was gone just as swiftly, overshadowed by disapproval. "What is it about the Ministry suspecting Aurora? She has nothing to do with this—I'm sure she would take Veritaserum to swear it if necessary. If you need me to testify, I will. What a preposterous accusation! Who came up with such nonsense?"

"The Minister for Magic," he sighed. "All because the culprit chose to submit Harry's name under Uagadou school. Fudge was tempted to improve his ratings by resorting to a quick arrest, you see. But the evidence we’ve sent him should ensure they leave her alone."

"You mean to say our minister almost dragged Aurora to Azkaban just to avoid a few embarrassing questions from the public? Nice officials we have. No wonder Alastor retired." There was indignation in the witch’s every syllable. As if to share his burden, she shook her head again. "I'm glad you prevented it. Mr Hagrid’s case from two years ago was quite enough."

"Absolutely.”

They took a few seconds to digest the government’s injustice before Albus went on.

“I won’t deny I was grateful to have Alastor for an ally while he worked there. He never pursued promotions or played the game, yet they respected him—for his competence and principles, and for his name."

The topic captured her interest at once. "Tell me about him, Albus. You go back a long way, don't you?"

"All the way to the forties," he admitted thoughtfully. "He was the youngest Auror, the most tireless one: while the Ministry wallowed in lethargy, he understood the importance of locating the war criminals that had fled all over the world, and he tracked some of them down to quite unlikely locations. That's what sets him apart: his complete lack of laziness and indifference means he leaves nothing to chance. It also means he has enemies, though even they grudgingly respect him."

Rolanda glanced down, unconsciously clutching the parchment.

"It's… mad. One could have thought he should be tired after all those years. But with me, he seems young in spirit—vehement at times, depending on the topic. In some ways still, he’s almost like a child. Then again, I myself must have behaved girlishly too." She met his gaze. "Do you approve, headmaster?"

He wavered before responding, mystified by her assessment of his friend. But it was a momentary hesitation.

"If you feel happy in his presence, if you always have something to talk about and if spending time together feels like a gift... then I wholeheartedly approve. It’s not every day we find our other halves, but it’s the most fortunate occurrence in the world."

"You sound as if you have already found yours."

"When I was seventeen. We are together still."

The witch gave him a long look. It was one Albus was familiar with. She had deduced his lover’s identity without being told his name and was surprised. Like everyone else, she had heard the rumours, and one of the most popular narratives depicted Albus as a weak man, hoodwinked by a dangerous Dark wizard. To her merit, Rolanda refrained from addressing any of it.

"Something about Alastor worries me," she confided instead. "I don't know if we are compatible. He's a pure-blood. I am not.”

Albus pondered her concern. Between Gellert and him, the difference in background and blood status had never come into question.

"Which aspect troubles you most? Is it his mindset, his family’s expectations, or other wizards’ reaction?"

"A bit of everything. Pure-bloods tend to live a certain way, to reason a certain way… And I’m not sure whether it might become difficult at some point. The very same family prestige, for instance: pure-bloods value it to such an extent that they sacrifice everything else to it. And Alastor is a pure-blood; he may be against radicalism, yes, but not against the values. Whereas I’m just a regular witch and those values are not _my_ values. I collect brooms. I like sports and wildlife. The pure-blood ways are not for me."

By now, they had walked the length of the enclosure to find themselves where they had started. The headmaster’s broom lay a few feet away.

"At his age, Alastor is unlikely to change—his habits are fixed for life,” he asserted after a brief contemplation. “Yet for as much as I know, he has traditional, tolerant views. He doesn’t delve in blood politics either—if I’m not mistaken, his cousin has taken over the responsibility of continuing their line. The Moodys used to socialise with such families as the Potters or the Prewetts. Alastor is, by and large, a loner; he never got married from fear of exposing his family to danger. The fact that he has now opened up is a first. And as long as there are no barriers between you, it doesn’t matter what some powdered snobs in London whisper at receptions."

Rolanda beamed at him.

"You are right, of course. I suppose it’s just a little frightening for me. I’m a loner too, you see. Letting someone into your life is not that easy—it’s a risk. If you get hurt, the damage might be… Well, let us not go there. I have your blessing, and that's what matters. Right… I only have a few notes to brush up, and then an owl can be sent to the Ministry so that they know we are ready to receive the dragons. Poor creatures—nesting mothers, of all things. Sometimes I wonder if anyone who works at the Ministry has a heart at all."

A quick hug, and they parted for the afternoon. Albus hoped that whichever decision the witch settled on would make her happy. She deserved nothing less.

With the preparations completed, he returned to his office. Darkness fell early these days; even so, it was unsafe to call on Sirius until late in the evening, once all of Hogsmeade had gone to sleep. He knew the cave was situated on the side of the mountain that overlooked the village, and despite its less than wide entrance, it could easily be located with magic.

He was not ready for what he found inside. The very first step into the cold, dimly lit cavern thrust him into a nightmarish déjà-vu, and he froze, gasping for air. Memories of Gellert’s first cell flickered before his eyes: nothing but stone and chains in a damp, windowless, impossibly claustrophobic section of the Nurmengard dungeon. Struggling to recover his spirits, he took another step and heard the crunch of tiny bones beneath his foot. He drew one deep breath after another, determined to go on. Sirius was waiting to confront him. Sirius, who would rather stay in these Azkaban-like conditions, living off rats, than ask his old headmaster for help.

Another, louder crunch reached his ears; this time, it came from the back of the cave. Buckbeak. Albus was never afforded a closer look, for a tall figure was shielding the hippogriff from view. In the ghostly light of his Lumos, Sirius was but a black shape with glinting eyes, shrouded in Dark magic. Had Muggles ventured into this cavern, they would have mistaken him for a demonic entity.

"Is my godson to compete in the tournament?" came a rhetorical question.

"Yes."

Albus waited for the outpour of wrath. It had now become his daily routine. But when all was said and done, this quarrel was going to hurt more than the others.

"I see." There was a seething quality to Sirius’s voice. "This must be how you protected him all those years while you let me rot in Azkaban."

He loosened his left hand, revealing a large stone, which he threw abruptly to the ground. It could not be more manifest that under any different circumstances, Albus would have had his nose broken all over again. Sirius’s rage rivalled Aberforth’s on the day of Ariana’s funeral. As if to clear any doubts on his emotions, the young man allowed his mental shields to drop so that every ounce of his hatred towards Albus would become perceptible.

It would seem he had spent a while spying on the Dursleys and had realised they had treated Harry most unkindly. In his mind, he had also repeatedly gone over his first meeting with his godson, and this had led him to surmise the boy had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The surprisingly strong parental streak in him had reached an unassailable conclusion: Albus had failed to protect Harry. It was the headmaster’s fault that the boy had been exposed to countless dangers.

"HOW COULD YOU LET IT HAPPEN?" he roared.

Albus forced himself to block out the sensation of déjà-vu, to focus on the present and the wizard in front of him. After their conversation in London, he no longer harboured illusions about Sirius’s stance and knew better than to attempt to justify himself. What mattered was Harry’s safety. He therefore spoke firmly.

"Lord Voldemort is back in the country. During last summer, he conducted a ritual of resurrection—presumably with Pettigrew's help—to recover his body, but something went wrong and his endeavour failed. I have a strong reason to suspect this is why he has arranged for Harry to be made a school champion. He will try to have him kidnapped at the earliest opportunity to sacrifice him at a new ritual. I have cast the Tracking Charm on Harry; no one will be able to lead him out of Hogwarts and remain undetected. If you wish to meet him, you are free to do it, but I need to be aware he will be with you. On those occasions, he and his friends will be under your protection.”

This piece of news was followed by a few seconds of silence.

"Great. So you have put Harry under the Tracking Charm—without his consent, I imagine—because you have some smart theories about what could possibly happen. I wish I could say I’m surprised, but coming from you, not really. Imprisoning people is something of your speciality, is it not?" The young man laughed bitterly. "What are we even talking about? You are the wizard who got his lover locked up for life. In addition, you were rewarded with countless titles for it, were you not? You must be so proud of yourself. Either way, you simply don't care that Harry might die, do you now? How do you intend to help him survive these tasks? Have you even made plans in that regard?"

Albus felt as though the ground were sinking under his feet. Black spots had erupted before his eyes. Before he could control himself, the air in the cave was dense with magic.

" _Never_ bring my lover into this," he said slowly and distinctly. “Never take this tone with me. This is your first and only warning." He permitted himself an instant to calm down. "If I didn't care about Harry, I wouldn't have put him under that spell. Yes, without his knowledge or consent."

"Not as Light as you pretend to be. Dear old dad was right on that account—who would have thought?"

There was satisfaction in Sirius’s words. He was, in fact, the spitting image of his ancestors at that very moment. The truth was, Albus had lived long enough to have experienced similar exchanges with the young man’s father and grandfather. Striking where it hurt—if only verbally—was something they excelled at and enjoyed. Sirius was not remotely ashamed of his jibe, that much was visible. Was it any wonder that his cousin Bellatrix had become an extremely vicious and efficient soldier under Voldemort’s tutelage? All the members of the Black family possessed the prerequisites, the degree of which varied only slightly between individuals.

"What, the greatest wizard of our time has nothing to say? The truth stings, doesn’t it?" Sirius smirked. "Frankly, I couldn’t care less about hurting your feelings. Tell me about the first task."

With some willpower, Albus kept his intonation even. It would be inexcusable if he started trading juvenile barbs.

"I cannot. I have signed a non-disclosure agreement at the Ministry's demand."

"Of course you have. How convenient." The young wizard balled his hands into fists. "And a genius war hero like you, I take it, can’t think of any solution around it. Why then, let me offer you a suggestion. Give me a hint—or better yet, lower your Occlumency shield. Someone has to help Harry, you know, and since you care too much to bother, _I_ will do it."

The proposition was a sound one and ought to maintain the integrity of the agreement. Steeling himself against the intrusion, which most certainly would be painful, Albus pictured in his mind the official document dedicated to the first task. It contained all the relevant points including the breeds of the dragons that would be brought in from Romania, as well as the golden eggs to be claimed by the champions.

"Come in then."

The Legilimency attack was as painful as expected. As Sirius took in the details, however, some of his belligerence ebbed away, overshadowed by parental instinct. He withdrew.

"Dragons… I have to warn him." He began pacing, fully concentrated on the challenge at hand. "I need to talk to Harry face to face."

"You can meet him in Hogsmeade this weekend,” Albus proffered. “Alternatively, the Floo Network is an option, provided there is a connected fireplace on your end."

"Is Hogwarts safe? Last year, I considered my options and dismissed Floo powder immediately. I imagine the Ministry hates you enough to spy on you—not that I would blame them—and they have the power to tap the Floo Network."

"Fudge doesn't hate me yet." The image of Dolores Umbridge flitted through the headmaster’s brain like a shadow. "The Floo Network is safe. If this changes, you will be the first one to know."

For a second, Sirius was about to nod his thanks; it was an impulse he contained, though.

"There is something else you are not telling me about Harry. But I will find out."

The older wizard blinked, genuinely puzzled. "What is it you want to know?"

"We're done here."

And with this, reaching his highest level of insolence yet, Sirius waved him off. He uncannily resembled his grandfather Pollux as he did so.

It was not at once that Albus broke through his stupor. Yet for the first time, he fully grasped Rolanda’s fears, her reservations, and her reluctance to tie her future to a pure-blood. No matter what common wizards made of their lives, how arduously they worked or how selflessly they cared for others, most pure-bloods would never view them as equals. Even Sirius, who believed himself free of his forefathers’ prejudiced convictions, held nothing but contempt for the _half-blood upstart_ the rest of the Blacks had always despised.

Turning on his heel, Albus walked out of the cave. If, at some point, the young man desisted from acting childishly, they might come to a truce. Until then, Harry’s well-being alone would unite them.


	10. Stories Told By Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" written from Albus Dumbledore's point of view.

The Transfiguration office had once been Albus’s, and he had kept it spartan, lifeless almost. Under Minerva’s touch, it had gained a sense of cosiness and warmth. Tartan blankets and flannel-covered cushions adorned the sofa; golden Quidditch trophies gleamed in the neat wooden cupboard. Albus knocked at the door, a tray in hand; it bore tea and a bowl of porridge topped with strawberries—Minerva’s favourite.

“Come in,” she called.

One glance at the witch revealed she truly was unwell. Her skin was pale, her eyes even larger than usual with shadows underneath them. Despite the fire crackling in the hearth, she was wrapped in a quilt, chilly from her lack of sleep.

“Well, good morning, headmaster,” she said. “You’ve decided to bribe me with breakfast, I see. Better tell me you’ve been working hard to find a way of saving my fourth year from being eaten alive in front of a crowd of spectators because, frankly, that would help me better than any breakfast could.”

He smiled, closing the door before carrying the tray towards her coffee table. “I have good news on that account: Harry is going to receive help. Not directly from me, but from someone who knows what the first task entails and who will go to any lengths to help him prepare.”

Minerva gazed at him. “Is it… is it certain? Because, like I said to Rolanda, I won’t stay silent. I didn’t sign any papers and am not contract-bound; if they want to cart me off to Azkaban, as they’ve taken to doing lately, so be it, but Harry… we took over the responsibility, Albus—we owe it to James and Lily to keep him safe. The odds are not fair anyway; Harry hasn’t had the training the other champions have got. And when I saw the parchment in Rolanda’s hands—when I understood the children would be facing dragons—we can’t let Harry go in unprepared, we just can’t—he could be burned alive, or eaten—we have to do something.”

Putting an arm around her, Albus led her to the sofa. Even with the heavy blanket over her shoulders, she was shivering.

“No one is going to burn Harry or eat him—I won’t allow it,” he vowed. “I would sooner jump between him and the dragon. But it won’t come to that: not only will the dragon handlers be on hand to intervene, should one of the champions fail, but Harry will be well-informed and advised on the best strategy. I arranged for it last night.” He put his other arm around the witch as well. “No matter what my favourite cat decides to do, I won’t let anyone take her to Azkaban.”

Although not an emotional person, Minerva could not contain herself in time: her chin trembled, and a single tear ran down her cheek.

“Oh, Albus, I’ve been so worried! Is this where you were gone to—to get help for Harry? I noticed you were often away last week. Is it Remus—is he about to return to assist Harry? He, of all people, can do it—he was James’s best friend, and he is no longer on the staff.”

“It’s not Remus, but it is someone from the Order.” Now that she mentioned it, Lupin had not written to them recently, which felt peculiar under the circumstances. “I’ve been to all places imaginable during these last weeks. Precious time has been wasted trying to keep reporters and irate wizards at bay.” He straightened up, his eyes affectionate. “But it is you I’m worried about. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier, my dear.”

“You should be sorry,” the witch sniffed. “You could at least have given me a hint. Otherwise, I would have warned Mr Potter myself—I swear I would.”

But she was not angry. In truth, she eyed the porridge longingly for the first time.

“At least you have a redeeming quality—you still remember my favourite.”

He passed her the bowl and watched her tuck in with no small amount of relief.

“How could I forget? Ever since Mr Goodwin from Ravenclaw tried to send you breakfast and flowers for Valentine’s Day…” His smile waned at the thought of students. “I’ve heard Mr Ronald Weasley has been unsupportive after Harry’s name was drawn. Have you noticed anything of the kind?”

Minerva heaved a sigh. “Yes, it would appear Mr Weasley doesn’t believe Harry. As of late, he’s been sharing his desk with Mr Finnegan and Mr Thomas. Miss Granger, on the other hand, is a good friend; she’s been there for Harry throughout. The poor girl is worried. Harry is fortunate to have her.” She shook her head. “Such nonsense! I’d have shaken some sense into Weasley myself if it were appropriate.”

It was Albus’s turn to sigh. “I’m sad to hear it. All misfortunes tend to come in quick succession. But I’m convinced their friendship will survive—this is but a childish tantrum.”

“A childish tantrum indeed,” she huffed. “You’d think they are too old for something like this, but alas.”

“At least they’re still youngsters. It’s the grown children I have no patience for.”

The witch rolled her eyes. “Tactful of you not to name anyone. One of these days, I might not be so tactful where certain colleagues of ours are concerned.”

“I wouldn’t blame you,” he chuckled. “For my part, I still have Amos Diggory’s shouting match to look forward to.”

“Oh, that. Let me offer you my sympathy, Albus. It’s ridiculous—how can they all miss the real issue here? My fourth year has been illegally forced to compete in a dangerous, potentially life-threatening competition, and all they can go on about is some… some _prestige_ , and how it’s supposedly unfair. I swear even Pomona has been acting more coldly towards me these days! And her Hufflepuffs have got into fights with my lions—can you believe it, Albus? Our students are fighting among themselves! Oh, pity Mr Snape is no longer one of my students—I know quite a few ways to wipe that smirk off his face.”

The headmaster raised his eyebrows, genuinely shocked.

“Pomona? Over some _tournament_?” It was not his intention to sound like a middle-aged gossip, but he had never yet known Professor Sprout to be unjust. “What has got into everyone?”

“Madness, that’s what it is. Then again, I might have been rather volatile too, I’ll admit. You see, it all started with assigning detentions to certain students from both of our Houses: Hufflepuffs were being unfair towards Harry, and my lions tend to protect one their own—most of the time, at least. Well, insults were exchanged, wands were drawn, and… naturally, Poppy patched everyone up, but Pomona insisted that her Puffs receive no disciplinary action, and I may have lost patience at that. But yes, to answer your question: this madness has got to everyone, and Mr Snape won’t stop smirking about it. He and Karkaroff make quite a pair.”

Albus wanted to close his eyes in indignation. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had always got along very well; now that their interests were at odds, however, the former’s pride and the latter’s loyalty resulted in some of the most stubborn and absurd conflicts known to Hogwarts. Conflicts supervised by equally biased teachers.

“Madness is the right word.” He turned his attention back to the witch. “I will keep an eye on our teenage ladies—Severus and Karkaroff alike. Or Alastor will. I promise Harry won’t face the first task unprepared. Promise me in return you’ll eat and sleep well, dear. After all, cats require at least fourteen hours of sleep a day.” 

This coaxed a small laugh from Minerva.

“You know your cats, Albus; it’s very true, and I promise to do just that. Merlin knows Mr Potter might need me. I must be in good shape at all times.”

Reassured, the wizard returned to his office.

The Wand weighing ceremony had been scheduled for late afternoon, and when the hour came, he waited for Garrick Ollivander to appear at the fireplace with the aid of Floo powder. While minutes ticked by, he stroked Fawkes, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions, Minerva’s assessment blending with Sirius’s accusations. Insanity had gripped the wizarding community, and to make matters worse, there was no hope of improvement once the Triwizard Tournament was over. This was _not_ going to end. One way or another, Voldemort was awaiting them at the close of the school year.

At last, not without delay, the fire glowed green, and Albus tore out of his agitated reverie.

“Garrick, it’s good to see you. Welcome back.”

There was something ethereal about the newcomer’s tall figure, his chiselled features and his pensive eyes, which were as silver as his hair.

“Albus! Too long it has been.” Ollivander smiled, glancing around the circular office. “Ah, but I am happy to be here—dear old Hogwarts! How are you, my friend, how are you? Now tell me, is Gregorovitch going to be present?”

“I’m good, thank you.” They shook hands. “And no, there is no need for another expert—your opinion will settle the matter.”

“Thank you, thank you, old friend.” Garrick gave a nod. “Not that I wouldn’t be happy to see dear old Gregorovitch, mind you—it has been too long—but between the two of us, it might be for the best. Our Russian friend tends to be a little full of himself at times. Now, I’m well aware of the scope of the wizarding woods over the Eurasian continent he has access to, but even so, it were we, the Ollivanders, who first started harvesting the highly magical objects and made it possible for wizards to channel their magic in the most practical way. Russians, on the other hand… well, they are rather rustic in their methods, aren’t they? They have good raw materials, no argument there, but… no finery, no polishing. It’s a part of the wand-making process too, you know. But of course, whenever I bring up this topic, Gregorovitch gets all offended.” He smiled knowingly. “You must forgive me—we wandmakers are few and far in between, but all the more competitive for it. But how are you doing, my friend? Recently, I only seem to see you in newspapers.”

The headmaster’s expression was one of apology. “These are turbulent times, no question. I wish you could have come to Hogwarts under happier circumstances; as it is… you will find our party resembling a courtyard full of clucking hens—all we do is snap at each other. And the poor kids have to witness it.” He cleared his throat. “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time before we go downstairs. There is something important we ought to discuss.”

“Don’t tell me—is Gregorovitch coming after all?” Ollivander inquired with a chuckle.

“No, it’s about someone much worse than Gregorovitch.”

“The last time we were together, we had so many shots of vodka that I may have allowed myself some fairly honest opinions—the Italian part of me can be temperamental, I’m afraid, though I fully consider myself English by now. At any rate, I dare say few things are scarier than an angry wandmaker, so tell me.”

Frowning slightly, Albus let the carefree remark slip. He could already divine what Olivia had been referring to when she had spoken of her cousin’s unwillingness to listen. Still, he had to try, and he would do his utmost.

“The Ministry doesn’t know this, but I have every reason to believe Lord Voldemort”— the name gave Garrick a start—“is back in the country, planning on returning to power. If, Merlin forbid, he succeeds… I’ve talked to Olivia, and we have agreed it might be safer for you to lie low, or temporarily relocate altogether. You are our best and only wandmaker, and you might present too great a temptation for a wizard with no conscience and an insatiable appetite for power. He could force you to work for his side or prevent you from helping the innocents.”

Ollivander blinked. “B-back in the country? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Are… are you quite certain?”

“I am.” Relief flooded Albus’s limbs. He had been afraid of not being taken seriously. “All the signs are there, and unless I’m mistaken, it might even happen sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, that can’t be good, can it?” Little by little, the wandmaker subdued his tremor. “But surely… I mean, yes, yes, it is You-Know-Who we’re talking about, but still… I made his wand—surely he has respect for the maestro. You said it very well: I am the only one around here. In fact, there are only Gregorovitch and I in Europe—and again, between the two of us: I think Gregorovitch occasionally enjoys far too many vodka shots. As good as this particular beverage may be, let’s just say… He once confessed to me he had encountered a wand—an evil object, one that gave him chills upon touching it—and when it was stolen from him, it felt almost like a release. He appeared spooked just talking about it. And that’s just barmy if you ask me. So you see, my friend, I can’t just leave. When Gregorovitch is out of it, dreaming about predatory wands, I am the only one—and I mean the _only_ one—who provides wands to wizards from entire Europe, not Britain alone. Even You-Know-Who has to understand that!”

Albus looked away. The Elder Wand reposed in his pocket, old and rustic and innocuous, and as far as he remembered, it had never filled him with a sense of dread—not the first time he had held it, and not later either. Of course, he did not possess the skill or the training required for detecting those subtle notes of magic; wandmakers were extremely rare for a reason.

“Garrick, Voldemort is far from rational,” he objected. “He doesn’t care that you’ve made his wand. He won’t care whether your name is Ollivander or Black or Georgie Porgie. If you stand in his way, he will attack mercilessly. But you have the means to make yourself invisible.”

“Oh, I’m hearing Cousin Olivia’s words right there.” Ollivander sighed. “I’m happy that you’ve remained friends, but Albus—with me, even You-Know-Who will make an exception. Like I said, I am the only one. We can even discount Gregorovitch: he has retired, or so I’ve heard. Well, we can still count him in, I suppose: that ‘retirement’ of his only lasts until he spots a nice tree or a magical creature—then he’s back in business, only to mutter the next day that now he _really_ is about to retire. The truth is, he enjoys being my only competition. Ever since he managed to weasel his way into Durmstrang, he’s been rather full of himself. Then again, I have Hogwarts, so I’m not complaining. And Cousin Olivia is… well, Albus, don’t listen to her; politics has got to her. She is forgetting that we, Ollivanders, are the maestros. Nobody dares to touch us. Dark Lords come and go; we stay.” He smiled. “This being said, give her a piece of my mind: that silly power struggle with the d’Angelli child is below the Ollivanders’ dignity.”

It was every bit as frustrating as Olivia had warned. The fact that the wandmaker lived in an imaginary world of his own was to be expected; still, Albus felt sad at the man’s belief in his untouchable status and his fixation on Gregorovitch. He drew a breath, ready to offer more arguments, when a shuffling sound floated from behind him. The phoenix was grooming himself, running his beak through his feathers.

The wandmaker noticed, his silver eyes lighting up.

“Why, hello there, beautiful bird! Albus, any idea whether Fawkes would be willing to share another feather or two with me?”

The answer came swiftly. With a squeak of alarm, the phoenix unfolded his wings and took off to perch himself on the tallest bookshelf, from which he cautiously peeked at them.

Ollivander did not hide his disappointment.

“No? Well, _peccato_. Another time then.”

It was a lost cause. Resigned if not quite dissuaded, Albus invited him downstairs into the spare classroom designated for the Wand weighing ceremony. Almost everyone was in attendance: Cedric Diggory and Fleur Delacour were engaged in a lively conversation, Viktor Krum stood on his own a distance away, and Barty Crouch was poring over his notes at the judges’ table. Ludo Bagman, it seemed, was entertaining the other headmasters with an anecdote while the photographer was snapping test shots of the room. Every now and then, his eyes would dart towards the part-Veela.

“There you are, Albus!” Ludo waved them over. “And Mr Ollivander is here—excellent! Shall we get to it? Rita has already started on the interviews—they should be back any minute.”

This explained Harry’s absence. Annoyed, Albus strode out and cast about the corridor, taking in the closed doors. He pulled the nearest one open on impulse and found it to be a broom cupboard. Sure enough, two faces turned towards him: a flushed, harassed-looking Harry and an alert Rita Skeeter. Before a single sound could be exchanged, her notes and quill vanished from sight, and she was standing up.

“ _Dumbledore_! How are you? I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards’ Conference?”

She shook his hand, her nails leaving dents in his skin. Albus had to stomp down on his childish impulse to let his magical aura scald her in retaliation for treating Harry in such an exploitative fashion.

“Enchantingly nasty.” He smiled. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.”

Her lips twitched—she was flattered that he had memorised her article.

“I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street —”

Behind her, Harry rose to his feet, his whole countenance pleading for help.

“I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita, but I’m afraid we will have to discuss the matter later,” Albus cut in with a courteous bow. “The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard.”

He followed them back into the classroom just as everyone regained their seats. All the gazes came to rest on Ollivander, stationed at the window with a meditative expression. Now that he knew Gregorovitch would not be joining them, his interest in the event had visibly faded. Indeed, he spun around the instant they dispensed with the introductions and called forth the first champion, as if impatient to be finished.

Miss Delacour approached, her wand in hand, her hair flowing down her back like ripples of pale sunshine. If she had detected the photographer’s indecent stare—and Albus did not doubt it—she let nothing show. Most likely was she used to wizards’ attention and no longer allowed it to affect her daily life. This was a mature, endearing side to her personality.

Ollivander twirled the ornate wand between his fingers.

“Yes, nine and a half inches, inflexible, rosewood, and containing… dear me…”

“An ’air from ze ’ead of a Veela—one of my grandmuzzer’s.”

“Yes.” He ran his fingers along the carved wood, unimpressed. “Yes, I’ve never used Veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands.”

“Agreed,” Karkaroff grumbled.

Albus glanced to his left. The Durmstrang headmaster was attempting to pull thick velvet gloves over his bandaged hands.

“Are you all right, professor?”

“An accident on ze ship.”

An accident it certainly had been—only, the Englishman was willing to bet it had transpired in the Great Hall. For a while, the school’s golden plates and spoons would hopefully remain safe from Karkaroff’s greedy hands.

It was Cedric’s turn to have his wand examined. Rita contemplated the boy from the corner of the room, the tilt of her head suggesting she was sorely tempted to capitalise on his photogenic potential. Unfortunately, Cedric’s name was too obscure to be of public interest when Harry and Viktor were participating as well, and she realised it. This could be the reason she positively perked up once Krum’s name was called. So did Ollivander.

“Hmm, this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I’m much mistaken? A fine wandmaker, though the styling is never quite what I… however…”

Curious whether Karkaroff intended to assert Gregorovitch’s superiority over his English colleague, Albus peered aside again. He waited in vain: the Ukrainian’s sole concern was to make his hands look presentable for the upcoming photos. So far, he had achieved little success.

“Yes… hornbeam and dragon heartstring? Rather thicker than one usually sees, quite rigid, ten and a quarter inches…”

Beneath the needling remarks, there was undeniable affection in Garrick’s voice. Seeing how rare wandmakers were and how vast and unique their set of skills was, it made sense they alone could fully appreciate each other’s company. Competition could not stop two wizards from becoming soulmates.

Harry’s wand broke the spell. Ollivander inspected it with a fascination akin to that of an explorer discovering ancient treasure. It was odd to imagine this stick contained one of Fawkes’s feathers; odder still was its twin relation to Voldemort’s wand. Phoenixes were Light, benevolent creatures, and Fawkes was no exception—he would never have chosen to serve a heartless man. Albus could tell why his familiar had refused to lend more feathers to wandmaking.

Those points had also occurred to Harry, who was watching Ollivander with anxious eyes and was relieved to withdraw from the spotlight. Two seats away, Barty Crouch put a check next to the last name on his list and closed his notebook.

These two details—the boy’s unease and Crouch’s haste to depart—prompted the headmaster to intervene.

“Thank you all. You may go back to your lessons now—or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end—”

It was an honest try, and a perfectly futile one: the photographer as good as jumped in front of the door to block it, nodding at Ludo’s insistence that pictures ought to be taken. Amid the scraping chairs, an irritable Crouch took his leave, as did Ollivander.

“Albus, please try to prevail on Fawkes to let me take a feather or two,” was the latter’s parting request. “He will listen to you.”

With this, the door snapped shut; now there truly was no saving them from the photoshoot. Rita and the photographer were arguing which background offered the softest lighting; as soon as they reached a consensus, they clashed on the topic of group formation.

“The champions should stand at the front and the teachers at the back, all smiling and relaxed, like a team,” the photographer pointed out repeatedly. “That’s most pleasing to the eye—smiles, camaraderie, that sort of thing.”

“Sure, sure.” Rita’s sharp eyes sought out Harry, her demeanour downright hungry. “The youngest champion should be placed in the middle.”

“But I think Miss de la Court should—“

“Let’s get started, Bozo; we need to get back to the office in an hour.”

Under their combined instructions, everyone converged in front of the wall opposite the window. Despite his obstructive gloves, Karkaroff would not cease twirling his goatee; Madame Maxime, on the other hand, displayed a graceful smile—like Cedric and Fleur, she was a natural in front of the camera. Harry and Viktor were the ones who struggled most: there was no dispelling their timid stiffness.

“Yes, very nice,” Rita commended over the clicks of the camera.

Grimacing slightly, Bozo stepped back, snapped another test shot, and kept receding until he reached the window. He squashed himself against the glass in search of a good angle and then shook his head.

“Sorry, miss—ma’am—it would be best if you sat down. I can’t fit you in the frame, see—and there’s a shadow over Mr Bagman and Mr Kroom. Or else, you could lie down in front of them.”

Madame Maxime gaped at him, staggered at the advice.

“Bozo, don’t be ridiculous!” Rita snapped. “Give her a chair.”

“Err—right. Here you go, ma’am.”

Olympe sat down, her lips pursed. Guided by the journalist, the others surrounded her in an order according to their heights. More disagreements ensued due to Bozo’s determination to have Fleur standing at a spot of prominence while Rita practically dragged Harry to the front with a vice-like grip. Albus could only dream how much more productively this hour would be spent reasoning with either Crouch or Ollivander.

At last, several pictures were taken and deemed satisfactory. Posing for individual shots turned out more taxing by far. Miss Delacour went first, and for a solid ten minutes, the photographer circled around her, coming much too close at times. Albus found himself hoping the _Daily Prophet_ would make a selection of the pictures they needed and dispose of the rest before Bozo could drape his bedroom in the girl’s portraits.

Harry and Cedric had to subject themselves to the same routine: a series of seated close-ups and a succession of full-length images in standing position. The procedure was punctuated by Rita’s directions, which ranged from _Turn aside, it will make you look slimmer_ to _Give me a good, strong expression—you’re a champion!_

Viktor Krum required most counselling. Whether he did not comprehend what was being asked of him or felt too uncomfortable to pose, he would not alter his stance in spite of incessant _Try to vary your expression, lower your shoulders a bit, straighten up, chin down, eyes on the camera_. Fifteen minutes later, Karkaroff had had enough.

“Show me ze back of ze camera!”

He snatched the device from Bozo’s grasp but could not accurately press the buttons—his gloves were too thick.

“All right, you show me his shots one by one.”

“But sir, we need to get back to the office—“

“You vill make time for me. Viktor has to haff decent pictures. And show zem _slowly_.”

Albus addressed the two remaining boys, who were observing the scene open-mouthed.

“Harry, Cedric, you are free to go down to dinner if you wish. Thank you for your participation.”

They could not stride out fast enough, as if terrified of being called back. The French party followed suit; Ludo Bagman alone was left behind. In the meantime, the cowed photographer was deleting Viktor’s pictures with Karkaroff towering over him.

“Good. Now give me a moment.”

The Ukrainian bent down to whisper in Viktor’s ear. He ended up clapping the boy on the shoulder. “Come on, you can do zis.”

With a sigh and a Herculean effort, Krum straightened up to strike a confident pose. The camera clicked away.

“Marvellous!” Rita exclaimed. “I think we got it this time. You happy, Bozo?”

“Y-yes,” the man uttered faintly.

“Give me ze camera,” Karkaroff demanded yet again.

This time, the journalist was too quick for him—she seized the device herself.

“Oh, but he looks just perfect: a brave, strong young man—a true wizard, a good man! Witches in the street will be cutting out this photo to hang it over their beds, I promise—see?”

She showed him the back of the camera, which he scrutinised with scepticism.

“Are you sure?”

Rita smiled, tipping her head coquettishly. “Oh, absolutely, Headmaster Karkaroff! It shows at once what an excellent teacher you are: all the Durmstrang boys you have brought with you make the local ones look like a bunch of buffoons. And Mr Krum here, now he is the star! That’s an excellent picture, I assure you.”

After a brief hesitation, he relented.

“If you say so. Off you go, Viktor; vell done. Is zere time for my headshots? People haff to know vho taught such a brilliant young man.”

Careful to stay out of his sight, Bozo waved his hands in despair, mouthing, _We’re running late!_

The witch ignored him; there was a sly, flirtatious grin on her face.

“But of course! Bozo, you heard Headmaster Karkaroff. Now, sir, if you’ll kindly strike a pose in front of that wall.”

_Clever Rita_ , Albus thought, amused. She had deduced what genre of man she was dealing with and was merely appeasing his vanity. He was a fool to believe a single one of those photographs would see the light of day—unless, that was, Rita and Bozo wished to have a laugh.

With courteous thanks, the headmaster excused himself and walked out, accompanied by Ludo. Both felt the show could continue without them. 

At last, the day came to an end. Once at Nurmengard, a tired Albus could not help himself: despite his determination to stay level-headed, he ended up ranting to Gellert about his encounter with Sirius. Even as he did so, he felt ashamed—not the least because of the hurt he could hear in his own voice.

The German wizard listened without interrupting him. When he answered, his tone was both comforting and light.

“Well, I must say I’m impressed you didn’t wish that little boy happy reading—I wouldn’t have resisted.”

After a few seconds, Albus understood: this referred to Sirius’s promise to find out exactly what he had not been told about Harry. The joke helped.

“Sadly, I didn’t think of it,” he admitted more calmly.

“I’m also curious to find out how he will make sense of all that Kreyol. It’s not quite the same as French—trust me, I would know.”

“Which spells did you research?”

Gellert smiled; in a wink, his face appeared younger, as if his old self were shining through the lines and lines of misery embedded in the features Albus knew so well.

“Remember our first longer conversation after auntie introduced us? I told you back then Conjuring was my favourite subject. And what is Conjuring if not a blend of Sakrémaji? The truth is, I never really gave up my love for that subject. I learned more on my own later on. In fact, I believe I might just be one of the best Conjurers on the European continent—well, I would be if still allowed to practice magic.”

“You _are_ one of the best.”

Settling his head on his lover’s knees, the Englishman was content to watch him for a moment. He could tell Gellert was in a good mood, reminiscing of the happier times, and this overshadowed any tension and hurt he had experienced lately.

“Tell me, Schatz,” he murmured spontaneously, “the first time you held the Elder Wand… did you feel anything out of the ordinary? Any… evil vibe?”

The German wizard’s blue eyes narrowed in a frown. “Why do you ask, Albus?”

“I spoke to Garrick Ollivander today. He unknowingly alluded to it.” Albus relayed the wandmaker’s account of Gregorovitch’s experience. Thoughtfully, he concluded, “When you gave it to me, I felt nothing of the sort. Of course, my emotions after our duel… you could have handed me a fire crab, and I wouldn’t have noticed. For a time, I struggled with the wand, that much is true—I felt terrible for using it. I told myself I was only safekeeping it for you. But in practice, it never felt different from my old wand.”

Gellert sighed; his cheerful spirits had dissipated.

“I’ve never really told you how I came to own this wand. The thing is, we were looking for the Hallows together—it was my obsession. One you wholeheartedly supported, even though it caused you to drift away from Aberforth. But then, Ariana… she died. Killed by… one of us. And I—well, I had Seen it happen, hadn’t I? When it occurred, I already knew it would. And I know what you are going to say—what you’ve repeated ever since you were granted your first visit to my prison cell—that it wasn’t my fault. But it doesn’t change the fact that I had Seen it happen yet wasn’t honest with you.”

None of this was truly new, and after a sigh, Gellert went on.

“Either way, when I disappeared, I first went to our hiding place—one that, ironically, never became ours—and there was Dieter waiting for us. I needed to get away from him. I just… informed him of what I had done—that after killing Ignat, I’d committed yet another murder—and I left. Naturally, I made sure _he_ couldn’t leave. It seemed to be the right decision at the time: this way, I reasoned, he would be safe and under my protection, unable to seek you out in my absence. He had many annoying questions, you see: questions I wasn’t willing—or ready—to answer. Later, I found out—to my delight, mind you—that he hadn’t even tried to run from me this time. I’m glad he didn’t, or he would have found out about the magical barriers I’d put in place.

“But I digress. You want to know where I went. First I went to the Balkans, and then further east. I needed to keep myself occupied to at least somewhat diminish my feeling of guilt. Looking for the remaining Hallow—the very wand you use now—struck me as the most practical course of action. Long story short, I tracked it down, just as Gregorovitch got it in his possession. And all at once, I had yet another quandary to face. Should I kill the wandmaker, making it quick, or should I try to pretend I wasn’t yet a cold-blooded murderer and take it from him by less violent means? I chose the latter. I closely followed Gregorovitch to learn all I could about his daily habits and routine. I wanted to know his weakness: when he would be alone and vulnerable. In the end, I discovered much more than that: indirectly, I started learning about wandlore itself.”

Albus had risen to sitting position. Even the passing years could not take away the pain of those confessions, genuine and emotional as they were. He drew in and embraced Gellert until their foreheads and noses touched. There was no need for words to convey his thought: _I will always love and support you. It is my fault you went through so much. You are a much better person than you give yourself credit for_.

A brief pause, and Gellert spoke again.

“There is a lot of Druidic magic involved in wandlore—a disappearing discipline, given the dwindling number of wandmakers in the world. Being able to assess which trees would make for good wands is crucial: not just any branch will do. Simply put, trees form families of sorts, the way other sentient beings do. You cannot touch a young tree, for it will miss its siblings so much, the resulting wand will be feeble at best and miserable and resentful at worst. The same warning applies to old trees. The gravest mistake a wandmaker can commit is to resort to an ancient tree that harbours Dark, _evil_ energies from a time long before our existence. It goes without saying that the choice of the core is just as essential—not only its compatibility with the tree in question, but also the manner in which the wandmaker has acquired it. You see, there is a deeply ethical dilemma around it. A unicorn or a phoenix might willingly don some of their hair and feathers, but dragon heartstring—how can you get that without killing the dragon? In rare cases, it might be possible to take it from a dying dragon without having recourse to violence; most of the time, however, violence is exactly what it will require. And when you think about it, aren’t violent wizards usually chosen as owners of such wands? I dare say looking at it under this angle will reveal quite a bit about the witch or wizard you are dealing with.”

His smile was a scholarly one.

“The bottom line… Even though it largely consists of the nearly extinct art of the Druids, there is so much more to it. Rare are the wizards who can _feel_ the trees, as well as the magical beings attracted to those. It’s a colossal skill we are talking about, and an immeasurable capacity for empathy: the ability to communicate with beings of all kinds. It takes all of this and more to create just one wand: a tool that will seamlessly enhance a single witch or wizard’s natural magic, one that will feel like an extension of their limb. Think about it, Albus. Can we really blame wandmakers for being a little… out of their mind? It’s one of the most difficult skillsets to possess. The price to pay is terrible. Being able to understand magical creatures and trees means you hear and understand their pain.”

Albus nodded, his mind brimming with reflections.

“I agree. And taking all of this into consideration, I would venture to assert Antioch Peverell didn’t possess the mindset of a wandmaker, his extensive knowledge notwithstanding. One could say he created the perfect _weapon_ on purpose: the hair of a Thestral enclosed in the wood of a powerful yet _supremacist_ tree—a tree that suffers no weakness.”

It was Gellert’s turn to nod. “Gregorovitch hated that thing. I saw gooseflesh erupt on his neck every time he held it. I’m convinced he was actually relieved when I rid him of it. Maybe I’m wrong, but I reckon… unlike the other wands, the purpose of which is to attract and enhance a witch or wizard’s inherent magic, this particular wand is not happy being the tool of one owner. You see, Albus, a wand—however interesting its origin may be—is meant to be satisfied once it has chosen its master. Only rarely will it change allegiance—not unheard of, of course, but it won’t actively seek to change as many owners as possible. An ordinary wand resembles a familiar, and it might consent to serve someone who shares an emotional bond with you. Now the Elder Wand… it does not merely wish to be loyal to one master; something in it wants to _claim_ your magical abilities for itself. It absorbs an echo of your magic. To achieve this, I suspect Antioch Peverell summoned a deity, perhaps from another realm. Could this be the reason behind the Deathstick’s bloody history? I cannot know for sure. I will only tell you this: it’s not to be toyed with. I am very sorry, Albus. At the time, I didn’t know. When we were searching for the other Hallows, I mean. Now, after all this time, I do hope none of those three objects will fall into the wrong hands, for we are talking about more sinister magic than most wizards realise.”

“Don’t apologise,” the Englishman whispered, squeezing his hand. “You didn’t know; none of us did. So far, the Elder Wand is safe—downstairs with the guards, as it happens—and when the time comes, we’ll decide what to do with it. Harry has inherited the Cloak, as was his birth right. And the Stone… I expect it’s where we left it, though I’ve never checked. Merlin…” He exhaled. “To think Tom Riddle—who _is_ descended from the Gaunts—believes himself the greatest Dark wizard of all times! And here we have Antioch Peverell, capable of trapping a Dark entity’s essence in a wand. Any of those Peverell brothers could have eaten Tom for lunch and felt nothing.”

Gellert burst into laughter.

“Careful, Schatz, your sense of humour is going Dark. That’s how it starts, you know.”

“I have never pretended to belong to either spectrum.” Mock-exasperated, Albus let his head rest on the German wizard’s shoulder. “People have declared me Light without consulting me, and now they act amazed when I express a Dark thought. Besides, if everything had gone differently back then, we would have studied this lore together. I would have helped you find the Elder Wand.”

“Well, people tend to oversimplify, you know. Light equals _good_ for many, whereas Dark… I’m not sure Dark wizards have many worthy representatives—even if they did, I must have ruined the general reputation for most of us for the years to come.”

This gave the Englishman pause, and he grew more serious. “So the reason the Elder Wand didn’t affect me… was it entirely due to my emotions?”

“It could be that your emotions eclipsed everything else,” Gellert mused. “It could be our bond too. Also, don’t forget I had studied Conjuring—a discipline you completely ignore at Hogwarts to this day, for better or worse—and that I had spied on Gregorovitch for long enough to know this particular wand was different. I was _prepared_ to sense this difference, and preparation plays a part. Remember our second night together? I’d say you were quite prepared for all the debauchery that took place in my poor auntie’s guest bedroom—in fact, I remember you quite enjoyed it. Of course, so did I.”

Taken aback yet chuckling all the same, Albus buried his blushing face in his lover’s shoulder. Calling their trysts _debauchery_ was a stretch: what he recalled could best be described as lust and tenderness and care and happiness so complete, he could not believe even then it was happening.

“I remember everything.” His gaze met the sapphire eyes. “I love you.”

Gellert embraced him. They sat in harmonious silence, both conscious it would soon be time for Albus to go. At last, the German wizard spoke once more.

“About Sirius Black: I don’t believe he is stupid enough to antagonise you in such a manner again. But he _is_ the product of his upbringing, even if he believes himself better than his ancestors. So when it comes to it, I feel you are in your right to show him clearly he is not to take such a tone with you. After all… if he needs a reminder of the fact that you have the power to complicate his life in many ways, he might as well get it.”


	11. Dragons vs Champions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

The night before the first task, a bump against the window pane distracted Albus from his paperwork. As he opened the shutters onto the dark sky, a rush of chilly November wind bore down upon him, bringing three unexpected visitors on its tide. The small creatures were swift like darts; they circled the office, flapping their wings and cheeping with excitement. Those were Spanish bats, a rare magical species. One of them was silver with age, and the other two younger—the older bat’s progeny. They had brought him a tiny piece of parchment with the following message scribbled in familiar handwriting:

_Meet me in Hogsmeade at the witching hour. Besos. Justice_

Glancing at his pocket watch, Albus found it was almost midnight: no time was left to spare. He snatched his cloak and addressed the bats, which were positively criss-crossing the air, observed by a benign Fawkes.

“Make yourselves comfortable. We will be back.”

He held out his forearm, and no sooner did the phoenix join him than the contours of the office faded. They materialised at Hogsmeade’s main Apparition point.

The village was asleep; only a few windows shone with candlelight beneath the sloped roofs. Owls hooted in the distance. Despite himself, Albus sought out the mountain, looming dark against the horizon like an entity of its own, and he wondered whether Sirius still lingered in the cave. His mind did not wander for long. The night air suddenly pulsated with magic, and whoosh, Justice was dismounting a broom by his side. At once, he reached out to support her, for she stood unsteadily on the cobbles. A half-buttoned coat thrown over a revealing dress was all that protected her from the icy wind.

“Albus!” she exclaimed merrily. “I had so much fun—and there’s so much you must see! D’you have Potions enthusiasts round here? I swear I could see someone sneaking about…”

The petite witch appeared very intoxicated, and Albus put an arm around her shoulders. How she had succeeded in flying and then Apparating on a broom was a mystery.

“Not that I’m aware of. What happened, dear? Where have you been?”

His daughter shot him a look sparkling with mischief.

“Valbona. What? It’s not fair that you and Giaco get all the fun!”

She was referring to the Albanian inn, situated near the forest clearing where Voldemort’s resurrection ritual had taken place. Had she ventured there on her own to search for clues? Torn between admiration and alarm, Albus took the broom and secured the witch in an embrace.

“I’m glad you are safe. Let me take you to Hogwarts—Fawkes will transport us.”

It barely took a flash. Back in the office, he hastened to seat her in an armchair while his familiar returned to his perch. The bats had fallen quiet, having chosen a cool dark nook in the ceiling.

“Oof!” Justice complained. “That was… quick. Mmm… better use Legilimency…”

He would have preferred for her to lie down, but there was no doubt she would be feeling very unwell the following day, and Legilimency would only aggravate her nausea. With a nod, he focused on her black eyes and felt his surroundings dissipate.

At first, a cacophony of clamour enveloped him; he had to squint at the explosion of light and colour around him. Little by little, those sensations settled into the ambience of a busy pub. He was in a cosy if modest establishment where Muggles—mostly men—ate and socialised, waited on by a married couple. Justice was seated at the bar, strikingly pretty and merry, drawing most eyes to herself. Two men were competing for her attention, too absorbed in gallantry to notice the way their shots refilled of their own accord. Between her flirtatious demeanour and her attire—which she had rendered provocative on purpose—no one but Albus could perceive the covert, elaborate spells she cast at regular intervals. She was already tipsy, and her mastery of Legilimency was all the more impressive for it: not only was she scanning the men’s memories for a glimpse of any suspicious event, but she had in fact resorted to complex mind magic to lead them to believe she was speaking their language. Something she spotted in one of the Albanians’ recollections gave her pause, and she leaned in, feline almost in her concentration. A heartbeat later, Albus’s vision went black. When it refocused on the same inn, he was inside a different memory: one that belonged to the Muggle.

The sky behind the window was a rich blue with the gentlest orange hue, characteristic of a warm summer evening. The crowd was sparser, the background music more prominent. Among the local customers, one person bore the unmistakable air of a foreigner: a short blonde woman clad in jeans and a black cardigan, bent over a dish of meatballs. A heavy traveller’s bag reposed by her side. But there was someone who looked even more incongruous. Stationed at the window, the man was facing away; not even his stealthy posture, however, could conceal his distinctive appearance. He was stooped, ragged and balding, and a finger was missing on one of his hands.

Albus gasped. Before he could gather his bearings, an irresistible force pressed against his chest, expelling him from the memory. He was back in the office, his hands gently resting on Justice’s shoulders. Exhaustion had overcome the witch—she had fallen asleep in his arms, thus breaking their connection. Even so, she had managed to show him what she had meant to share: the result of her investigation and resourcefulness. Did she suspect just how significantly her initiative had helped elucidate the recent events?

Straightening up, the headmaster waited for his hammering heart to quieten. His hand was trembling as he reached for the Elder Wand. He knew what the news meant, knew that Bertha Jorkins—the blonde woman from the memory—had stopped at Valbona Inn on a summer evening to have a meal. As had Peter Pettigrew. There was no longer any question as to why she remained missing or in what manner Voldemort had learned about the Triwizard Tournament. It was also more than plausible she was the unfortunate soul offered as a sacrifice in the Dark Lord’s necromantic ritual. And nobody was aware of the truth, except for the perpetrators and now Justice and himself. No doubt was Bertha’s family still hopeful of seeing the young woman return, cheerfully oblivious but safe and unharmed.

Tender emotion filled Albus when he gazed at his adoptive daughter. Cautiously, so as not to wake her, he cast the Hovering Charm and then levitated her towards the adjacent room. After removing her coat and shoes, he tucked her into his bed, brushing dark curls away from her cheeks. She would need sleep, and a lot of it—the upcoming day would not be kind to her. Nor to anyone else, for that matter.

The most pressing task at hand was to write a note for Giacomo, who had to be extremely worried about his wife. To his message, Albus added a Portkey so that the younger wizard could join them at his convenience. Once both items were sent, he lingered at his desk, staring at the flickering light of the nearest candle.

He remembered Bertha Jorkins well, even though she had never been close to him. Many had complained of her meddlesome curiosity and her love of rumours, and she had complained of many in return. Once, she had been Hexed by a boy she had spied on and teased, and when brought before Albus, she would not admit to having done any wrong. Later, as a Ministry employee, she would drift from department to department, purposeless and unbidden. Yet there was much more to her that Albus could recall. Her genuine happiness and pride at receiving a rare _Outstanding_ for one of her Transfiguration essays. The elation with which she had participated in a large-scale board game in the Great Hall. How sweet she had looked in brand new robes, standing under the mistletoe during one Christmas holiday.

Why had he never paid attention to her obvious loneliness and craving for inclusion? Why had he not approached her even once during the seven years she had spent in this castle? Why had he never thought of forging a bond of friendship and trust with her, as he had done with many other students? She had deserved it as much as any other child. Maybe it would have made a difference and upturned the course of the events.

He was not certain when the first tear rolled down; suddenly, he was crying, his face pressed against his hands. He had come to know Tom Riddle well enough to realise what end had befallen that lonely girl: how much pain and terror she had suffered before her life was severed. How inhumanly her tortured yet still living body had been harnessed for a ritual of resurrection. And now, months later, no one had even started looking for her, let alone granted her a decent burial.

A flutter of crimson and gold erupted before him. His hands touched silky feathers and felt a tiny and swift heartbeat under his finger pads. It was Fawkes, who, with a melodious cry, had flitted down to lay his beautiful head on the wizard’s shoulder. Albus embraced him.

For how long they sat entwined in silence, he could not have said. All he knew was that gradually, Bertha’s features had morphed into Harry’s in his mind. Harry was next as far as Voldemort’s plans of ruin were concerned, and he would be facing a dangerous task before the day was over. If anything happened to him… it took little to guess whose fault it would be. Brave, selfless Harry, who had scarcely lived long enough to experience anything pleasant in his life. The headmaster could not help but wish Sirius had broken his nose after all, as Aberforth had done nearly a century ago.

The sky grew paler and paler. It was almost eight o’clock when a flash of light signalled Giacomo’s arrival with the Portkey in hand. By then, Albus was feeling calmer and had already banished the traces of grief—if not those of worry—from his expression. Stroking Fawkes’s soft plumage, he smiled at his son, who appeared unrecognisable due to a skilfully performed glamour spell: he was now short and ginger and sported a moustache.

“Good morning, Giaco. You don’t look Italian today.”

“The idea is to try to pass for a low-key English Ministry employee. But first, I must ask—is Justice all right? You have no idea how worried I’ve been. What has my crazy wife done now?”

“She went to Valbona last night to gain information.” Albus stood up to lead him into the adjacent room. “She is safe and sound. Only, she’s had a lot to drink—it’s going to be a difficult day for her.”

Giacomo heaved a sigh and nodded. “Of course… I should have known. The minute I told her about the necromantic site in Albania, she wanted to go. Has she uncovered anything?”

Biting his lip, Albus struggled to keep his tone steady. “Bertha Jorkins, the English Ministry witch who went missing before the start of the school year, stopped at that inn on a summer evening. Peter Pettigrew, a henchman of Voldemort’s, happened to be there at the same time.”

There was no need to say more. His son nodded, his features grave.

“I’m sorry.”

Together, they peered into the room next door, where they found Justice curled up in bed, fast asleep. Albus lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Feel free to stay the day, Giaco. She will need peace and quiet. The first task starts right after lunch, and I have to be there, but I’ll ask a house-elf to sit with her. If you’d like to come down and watch, there should be plenty of room in the stands.”

“Thank you, Albus.” Now that he had seen his wife, Giacomo relaxed ever so little. “I will come down. There isn’t much that can be done for her at the moment—she needs to sleep it off—you, on the other hand, may need some support. In a way, that boy is your responsibility. You must be worried.”

They closed the door to the bedroom, and Albus wished he could shut the nightmarish visions of Bertha’s tortured body from his mind just as easily.

“A trustworthy contact promised to warn Harry and prepare him for the task. Even so, it’s all so very wrong… Ludo Bagman will be providing commentary, as if the kids’ trials were a Quidditch match. I hate this—the way this year has started and where it’s taking us.”

A hand descended on his arm, comforting.

“For what it’s worth, we’ll be by your side. All of us—even our extended family, I’m sure. What Justice did, irresponsible as it was… I know her well, and I can tell having fun was only a part of it. Most importantly, she did what you and I couldn’t, and it helped. We will continue helping you.”

This promise sent a new wave of emotion through the older wizard, causing his eyes to glisten. “What would I do without you? Thank you, Giaco. I’m here for you as well. I love you all.”

The rest of the morning was consumed by preparations; there was no avoiding it. Before lunch was quite over, students were pouring out of the castle in myriads, a disguised Giacomo among them. Reassured by Villy the house-elf’s presence at Justice’s bedside, the headmaster made his way into the judges’ box. When designing the stands, Rolanda Hooch had used Quidditch stadiums for inspiration; as a result, the circular construction reinforced with spells offered a clear view and excellent acoustics. The seats in the box were draped with golden fabric, and the witch had taken care to place a notepad and a quill on each of them.

As Albus observed the handlers arrange dragon eggs in the middle of the arena, Karkaroff strode in to take his seat. He seemed to be in a jolly mood.

“Dumbledore! Ready for ze show?”

“Certainly, Professor Karkaroff.” The Englishman forced a polite smile. “I see your hand has healed.”

“A scratch. After today’s victory, I must be careful not to hurt some ozer organs, but not to vorry—I haff experience in that regard too.”

He laughed heartily, inching aside to let Olympe Maxime pass. She had but a curt greeting for them both, her expression one of brooding concern. Barty Crouch was trailing behind her, and one glance at his waxen complexion prompted Albus to sit up straight. The official’s hands were shaking. Further silence was out of the question.

“How have you been, Barty?”

The enquiry earned Albus an irritated bark.

“Not—don’t—no time for small talk, Dumbledore!”

As if on cue, the last judge, Ludo Bagman, emerged. He cheerfully waved at the lot of them, waited for the handlers to complete their arrangements, and at an affirmative sign from Crouch, gave a welcoming speech. His aura vibrated with energy; there was no denying he possessed the talent of a showman. The task had now begun.

To the public’s excitement, the first dragon turned out to be a magnificent silvery-blue creature. The sound of a whistle pierced the air, and shortly thereafter, Cedric Diggory entered the enclosure. He was pale if determined, his wand held aloft. Yet when he took in the size of the Swedish Short-Snout, her razor-sharp claws and the way she had curled her tail around the eggs, his eyes registered nothing but shock. For one chilling instant, Albus could have sworn the boy had prepared no plan; most fortunately, he was at once proven wrong. Cedric cast about the arena until he detected a prominent boulder, the sight of which encouraged him. His gaze averted, lest he lose his nerve, he performed a spell. The rock turned into a full-size Labrador. Impressed, the crowd cheered and applauded, and Albus happily joined in; he knew all too well how complicated such a piece of Transfiguration was, what intense concentration it required—and despite his fear, Cedric had cast it flawlessly.

The yapping animal sprinted across the ground, visibly aggravating the dragon. Little by little, the long tail protecting the eggs loosened; the Short-Snout was rising to a standing position, impatient to silence the distraction. This was Cedric’s chance, and he seized it without rushing his approach; on the contrary, he advanced slowly, careful to make himself appear as small as possible.

But Albus’s sigh of relief was premature. Halfway towards the Labrador, the dragon became aware of the boy’s crawling motion. A few seconds of tension ensued: long, ominous, terrifying seconds. Then, without skipping a beat, the Short-Snout stomped her massive paw. And again when she missed.

“Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow,” Ludo commented in response to the onlookers’ shrieks. “He’s taking risks, this one!”

Cedric had a mere heartbeat to roll away before the dragon could step on him. His robes were drenched in mud, and he was not quick enough to avoid a jet of bright blue flame. He let out a yelp of pain.

“Clever move—pity it didn’t work!”

Albus wanted to cover his eyes with his hands. He looked on helplessly as the dragon opened her jaws, only to get distracted at the last second by the bouncing dog. Badly burned, Cedric located the pile of eggs and crawled towards his prize. As soon as he touched it, the handlers shot forward, and the terrifying spectacle was over.

“Vhere is the vench with refreshments?” came a loud question near Albus’s ear.

The headmaster jumped where he sat and spun around, incredulous. Had Karkaroff just referred to Madam Hooch as a _wench_? Did he imagine she was a house-elf responsible for tending to his needs?

“Nowhere,” he snapped.

In the meantime, Ludo Bagman ended the Amplifying Charm and lowered himself into the spare seat.

“Well, judges, such a nerve-racking task, eh? Time to award the marks. As per the rules of the tournament, you are free to consult each other before shooting your numbers into the air. Isn’t that right, Barty? Did I miss anything?”

No answer came. A little awkwardly, Ludo carried on.

“Err, apparently not… Old Barty probably can’t hear all that well—a dragon’s roar can deafen the best of us. So, um, I reckon Mr Diggory will need about a quarter of an hour in the Healer’s tent. What are your impressions?”

Since Madame Maxime was withholding her judgment and Karkaroff was busy pouring the contents of a personal flask into his pumpkin juice, Albus ventured to speak first.

“It is clear to me the task took Cedric by surprise, compelling him to think quickly. In spite of the tremendous pressure, he displayed a perfect mastery of Transfiguration. This, in my humble opinion, deserves recognition. I will grant him eight points.”

“Seven from me,” Olympe declared. “I will not argue against ze bravery, but ‘is solution was a risky one; ‘e eez lucky not to be more injured zan ‘e eez.”

“Risky is an understatement.” Karkaroff smirked. “Haff you missed him rolling around on ze ground, screaming for help?”

Ludo grimaced with indignation.

“Now there, my dear man, that’s a bit unfair, don’t you think? The boy did rather well. _Of course_ he screamed when the dragon burned him, but to put it like this—come on!”

The Ukrainian spared him half a glance before turning his attention back to his drink.

“Four points from me—and zat’s because it vos mildly amusing, how he vos crawling on ze ground. But zis is not ze way real vizards should behave. Real vizards _slay_ dragons; zey do not fall into ze mud at ze sight of one.”

_Mildly amusing_. Albus drew a steadying breath. A little more of this, and he would not be able to resist inviting Karkaroff into the enclosure so that everyone could learn the way _real wizards_ ought to defeat dragons.

The mocking remark had scandalised Ludo just as much, except the younger wizard did not hide it as adeptly.

“No way!” he exclaimed. “Nine points from me—I’m with Dumbledore on this one. The dog was impressive and deserves the points. Barty?”

“Eight,” Crouch breathed. “Injury. Serious.” 

The vein in his temple was throbbing, as though he had engaged in a laborious yet invisible effort. If his colleague took note, he had the tact for once not to address it.

“All right, we have our results ready. Judges, you can display your marks right after my announcement.”

They did so. A bandaged Cedric left Madam Pomfrey’s tent for long enough to witness the evaluation, and he received his points with a grateful smile.

By the time the whistle was blown again, Albus felt breathless with fear. If the champions of age found it difficult to retrieve the golden eggs, what was going to befall Harry?

Fleur Delacour, however, made proof of remarkable composure. She did not point her wand at the Welsh Green; instead, she held it in a vertical position, her eyes locked on the creature. Her lips were moving in what was bound to be a chant, and Albus reckoned he would not have understood the mysterious language even if he had been sitting close enough to hear it. Without breaking the eye contact or her song-like incantation, the girl started walking forward, one guarded step at a time.

The spectators waited patiently for a sign of magic, and when none could be seen, they erupted in confused muttering. Not a wink later, the leaf green dragon swayed on her strong paws. It was Veela magic, the headmaster realised—the reason Fleur was holding her wand in such an unusual manner was to harness its power rather than channel her own. She was, after all, but a part-Veela and needed her grandmother’s help. The magical hair contained in her wand was what permitted her to achieve an enchantment no human witch would have been capable of. Beyond a doubt, the feat required all her efforts, but she persevered until the creature’s yellow eyes closed in sleep. The Welsh Green slumped to the ground with an impact that shook the entire structure, and the students cheered.

“Oh, I’m not sure that was wise!”

The sobering observation came from Ludo, who had noticed what no one else had: the girl was standing in the trajectory of the dragon’s breath. It happened as soon as the words registered: a sleepy snort, a jet of fire, and Miss Delacour’s skirt was aflame. Her self-control vanished; even as she doused the fabric with the Water-Making Spell, there was panic in her gesture.

“Careful now! Good lord, I thought she’d had it then!”

Not even the audience’s screams could wake the dragon, yet the momentum had been ruined. Subdued, Fleur picked the golden egg, and the handlers hurried forth to put an end to her trial. 

This time, Albus volunteered his opinion without being prompted.

“I found Miss Delacour’s recourse to Veela magic impressive, especially her clever use of the wand to magnify her abilities. It was a unique approach few others would have been capable of. Her collected demeanour is worthy of praise as well. I feel obliged to deduct points for the finale and the inattention—if it weren’t for this, her execution would have been perfect. Seven points from me.”

“Nine points,” Olympe objected. “Where else ‘ave you seen such magique, Dumbly-dorr?” 

It was a rhetorical question, so he merely smiled.

“My dear Madame Maxime, but seven is very good,” Ludo intervened. “I’ll give her seven points too—would have given more, but the dragon almost burned—“

“Almost,” she echoed icily. “Certainly not more so zan Monsieur Diggory, and you gave _‘im_ nine points despite ze burns.”

Ludo’s round face turned scarlet.

“Um… Barty?” he uttered, plainly lost for an answer.

“Six.”

The man’s laconic reply shocked Olympe so deeply that some of her outrage dissipated. She pressed her lips shut, scandalised and resigned in equal measure. It was up to Karkaroff to finish the debate.

“Five,” he decided after some deliberation, stroking his goatee. “At least your champion vos not rolling around in ze mud—unlike the Hogvarts champion—so a point for zat.”

He raised his goblet and winked at Madame Maxime, pleased with his own generosity.

Albus could have smacked himself for not awarding the girl more points. Her final mark was ridiculously low and came across as an insult to Veela magic. Sadly, it was already too late for amendments.

Soon enough, the handlers brought in the Chinese Fireball: a graceful, exotic creature with crimson scales, golden spikes, and eyes the shade of emeralds. She perched on the pile of stones in front of her eggs, as if to shield them from curious onlookers.

Viktor Krum stepped into the arena with his wand at the ready. He began edging towards the dragon; it could be surmised he meant to come as close as possible to allow himself a solid aim. The Fireball never took her gaze off him; his advancement alarmed her. At last, she jerked, intent on standing on her hind legs, and Krum attacked. It was swift, ruthless, and accurate. While the Conjunctivitis Curse produced no light, there was no mistaking its effects. With a pitiful roar, the blinded animal leapt aside, tossing her head and attempting to paw at her swollen eyelids. The enclosure rattled with the force of her thuds. 

“Very daring!” Ludo shouted. “That’s some nerve he’s showing!”

If the students’ cries were anything to go by, they were awed by Krum’s boldness. But not everyone shared their favourable point of view. Hagrid and Charlie Weasley were clutching their heads in horror; one of the distressed handlers had actually ripped out a fistful of his hair. Even in the stands, a small commotion had broken out, for a bunch of sixth years had to restrain Rolf Scamander from climbing over the banisters and jumping into the arena. Throughout it all, Krum lingered a prudent distance away.

Pressing a hand to his mouth, Albus willed the creature’s torture to end. Instead, it went from bad to worse. The pain and loss of sight had disoriented the Fireball: she thrashed around and landed her full weight on her eggs, unawares. It was heartbreaking to watch. As Krum grabbed the golden egg, the handlers literally threw themselves into the enclosure to the dragon’s rescue.

Ludo sat down; he had never looked more serious. An unsettled Olympe caught Albus’s eye, and for the first time, there was unity between them. Bagman sensed it—not without some effort, he cleared his throat, resuming his role of an organiser.

“Judges?”

“Mr Krum cast a good and clean Conjunctivitis Curse,” Albus said. “He claimed the golden egg more quickly than his predecessors and didn’t get hurt in the process. This being said, I can never un-hear the dragon’s screams of pain. The Chinese Fireball is an endangered species, and the loss of her eggs is a tragedy. I will give Mr Krum seven points—only because I suspect he didn’t come up with this barbaric idea on his own.”

Madame Maxime nodded her agreement. “Six points.”

“Um… seven,” Ludo offered thoughtfully. “Barty?”

“Five.”

Karkaroff stared them out, his nose wrinkled.

“It does show why all of your champions are taught to crawl on ze ground and scream at ze sight of danger. Viktor showed bravery and valor, as a vizard should. Ten points.”

No one thought it worth their time to argue or explain how unethical Krum’s solution had been. Wizarding community retained a great deal of bias against dragons, and most students were too excited by the show to care about the proper treatment of the creatures. Amid the cheers, no one heard Rolf’s sounds of disapproval.

And now, it was the turn of the last dragon: a notoriously bad-tempered Hungarian Horntail. Gigantic, coal black and bat-like in appearance, she settled directly over her eggs, unwilling to budge. Albus was drawing deep breaths and knew Minerva was doing the same; he hoped Rolanda was near to hold her hand.

Harry walked into the grounds. His features were more than pale—they had a green, ghastly tinge to them, and Albus wanted to curse Tom Riddle and his minions for tormenting the child so. And yet, there was no hesitation in the latter’s voice when he raised his wand.

“ _Accio_ Firebolt!”

A strong spell this was: it took hardly a minute for the racing broom to come swishing through the air. Harry mounted it before speeding upward, and this was when true magic occurred: as if finding himself in his natural element, he discarded all traces of anxiety and deployed strategy. With an astounding amount of calculation, he started circling around the dragon, distracting her, provoking her, luring her away from his prize. It was far from easy; the Horntail was particularly protective of her eggs, and rather than expose them, she breathed fire. Harry was ready—he swerved just in time.

“Great Scott, he can fly!” Ludo commended. “Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?”

Albus would have loved dearly to take a peek at Karkaroff’s expression; only, he had learned not to celebrate prematurely. Harry’s second veer was not as successful: although he evaded the flame, he received a vicious slash on the shoulder with the dragon’s spiked tail. Tantalised by his performance, the spectators groaned their sympathy. It did not deter him; he only flew higher and higher until the creature could take it no longer. She deployed her wings, prepared to squash him, and this sufficed. He dove.

It was over in seconds. The golden egg gleaming under his arm, Harry was zooming off, and the handlers were free to soothe the confused dragon. 

“Look at that! Will you look at that!” Ludo was jumping up and down with delight. “Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr Potter!”

Albus leaned back; he felt positively light-headed with relief and could not contain his grin. If this was Sirius’s work, every ounce of yelling and conflict between them had been worth it.

“Nine points,” he announced. “A point off for the injury, that’s only fair. But his method, simple and effective as it was, yielded the quickest result without harming the dragon.”

Madame Maxime was as sour as he was happy.

“Eight points.” She did not elaborate, but he could tell she had deducted a point simply because he had done the same to her champion.

Ludo was another matter.

“Eight?” he scoffed. “With all due respect, now that’s just biased. Mr Potter smashed it—I’ll give him ten points. Merlin, I haven’t seen such flying in years! Now he could make it _big_ in the Quidditch business. Barty?”

“Nine. Points. Injury. Not good,” came oddly disconnected words.

This did not satisfy the commentator either.

“Oh, you and your rules, Barty—who cares about the injury? Nothing but a mosquito bite. Headmaster Karkaroff?”

Like Snape, the Ukrainian possessed a gift for silencing people with a single look, and it could not be more obvious Ludo’s attitude vexed and disappointed him.

“I’ll say Mr Potter cheated. First, he vos prepared, so someone tipped him off about ze dragons. Second, zis strategy of his vos supreme cheating. He vos flying _avay_ from ze dragon, not _facing_ it. I vill not possibly revard such treachery. Four points, and zat is generous!”

Indifferent to his rant, Albus smiled on. Even taking into account this lower mark, Harry had won the task fair and square. Most importantly, he was safe—at least today. To cap this turn of fortune, the boy did not exit Madam Pomfrey’s tent alone: Ronald Weasley was standing by his side, supportive once again, and furious at Karkaroff’s injustice. The two closest friends strolled out of the enclosure together.

Beaming, the old wizard addressed the other judges.

“There is a small feast waiting in the Great Hall—you are all cordially invited to attend.” Crouch’s ill airs made him waver. “And I was hoping to have a word, Barty, if you don’t mind.”

“I ‘ave to tend to my champion.” Olympe heaved herself up. “If you’ll excuse-moi.”

“Of course. Thank you for your contribution, Madame Maxime. I hope to see you at dinner.”

She departed without thanking him in return. Most likely she would come to dinner to maintain the appearances; so far, however, Hogwarts had failed to conquer her—a fact that would not be changing in the near future.

Ludo remained oblivious to the cold shoulder she had given them.

“Well, I’ll go and congratulate Harry. Such a good boy he is! Truly impressive flying there. See you in a bit, Barty!”

Now only three wizards stayed behind in the judges’ box.

“Vot about ze second task?” Karkaroff demanded. “If zis is vot you two are going to discuss, zen I vill stay right here, sank you very much.”

“It’s not about the second task.” Albus contemplated Crouch’s glazed stare. “I have tried to apprehend you since the announcement of the champions, Barty. You as good as admitted then you needed my help. Talk to me, please.”

“Help… help… My wife… my…”

Behind the airy words, a fierce inner battle was being fought. Even Karkaroff saw it; for once, he intently observed the official and made no sound.

“Dumbledore.”

It was as though Crouch had only just realised Albus was present. There was something disturbing about the flat intonation with which the name was pronounced. And then, without a warning, the glazed eyes came to life, and a spark of madness, of rage even shone in their depths.

“YOU!” Crouch bellowed. “IT IS ALL BECAUSE OF YOU—YOU, A DARK WIZARD’S HARLOT! MAY YOU ROT!”

He snatched his notepad and quill, shoved them haphazardly into his briefcase, and tore out of the box. Albus gaped after him, speechless.

“Vell,” the Durmstrang headmaster drawled, “I vill see you at dinner zen. An interesting conversation ve had here…”

He coughed for good measure—a poorly veiled attempt at masking his laughter.

Since no one would be attending the feast, Albus made his solitary way to the grounds. His son was waiting behind a thinning group of students.

“Well, I’d say well done to all, especially Harry; you can real—what’s wrong, Albus?”

Giacomo’s worry was patent despite his glamour spell; he had deemed it advisable to spend the day incognito in case any of the Ministry officials should recognise him.

“It’s… nothing serious.” The older wizard sighed. “Barty Crouch is not himself, that’s all; we had something of an altercation back in the stands. I hope you’ve had a good time watching the task.”

The Italian frowned but did not press the matter.

“I’m very glad Harry Potter came up with such a genius solution—it really was spectacular. Having said that, I feel rather sorry for the Veela girl; she was crying hard in that tent.”

This did little to lift Albus’s spirits. “Poor child. I wish I’d given her more points. This whole competition is more biased than I expected.”

“That’s always the case. From what I heard, the girl was sobbing about her ruined skirt, but there was more to it, I’m sure. Without being a pure Veela, she performed a remarkable piece of Veela magic and got the lowest marks for it. It looks bad from the side, I won’t lie. Then again, it can’t be easy to award points. The Krum boy did well, except… poor dragon. I can’t say I’ve ever heard a creature scream in pain like this, and I frankly never want to hear it again.”

Pausing, Giacomo held out his arm to invite Albus back into the castle.

“We should probably check on Justice. She must be wondering what to make of those pained roars.”

“Let’s go.” The headmaster was much too preoccupied to heed the curious glances from students and staff alike. “At least the champions are safe for the time being. As for the person who put Harry’s name in the goblet… they’ll have something to ponder about.”

“It depends on what they wanted to achieve. If it was to get him killed, they can’t be feeling very content. If it’s a smokescreen for a bigger plan, Harry’s triumph has bought them more time.”

“I’m afraid it’s the latter.” With one last sigh, Albus pulled himself together. He would not let anything put a damper on Harry’s victory. “There is a point I meant to discuss with you, Giaco—one I couldn’t mention in a letter. You see, I visited Olivia Ollivander about two weeks ago.”

“I know.” To his surprise, Giacomo smiled. “You’ve been busy. Don’t worry, I’m not angry—I understand why you did it. In fact, I’m already working on it.”

Intrigued, the Englishman raised his eyebrows. “I promised I would do it, for Gia’s sake. But also for Olivia’s.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean by working on it?”

His son met his gaze. “Olivia was absent from the political scene for a while. During that period, I wasn’t resting on my laurels; I planted spies in the Ministry and as close to my opponents as I possibly could. The second Olivia showed up at the Ministry, I heard about it. I’ve already started surrounding her with people who… ah, work on many fronts, shall we say. My strategy is fairly simple: she will support Gia even if she isn’t aware of it. This leaves me free to work on my access to the Durmstrang board of governors—for I believe there will soon be quite a few changes at Durmstrang as well. The timing is perfect.”

“It sure is.”

Albus took an instant to digest the news. He was proud of Giacomo, and a little taken aback as well. Sometimes he tended to forget how much his son had grown, how Machiavellian he could be in his endeavours. He still tended to see a stray kitten in place of a panther. The fact that Olivia was being steered in a specific political direction without her knowledge left him uneasy; on the other hand, he possessed no moral high ground whatsoever and could not, in truth, reprimand his son for protecting his family.

“I’m glad you’ll be submitting your candidacy to the board of governors,” he replied in conclusion to his thoughts. “If that buffoon keeps his post for any length of time, he will destroy the school. And Olivia… Olivia was noble enough to forgive me. I’m certain she will grow fond of Gia too; all she needs is time and involvement. She was wasting away in Liguria.”

“Her situation… it’s sad,” Giacomo admitted. “I promise my strategies have not been designed to actively harm her. However, if she reveals herself to be stubborn and fixated on the old feuds, or if she tries to hurt Gia, then I may have to break my word to you. But not before. I have no reason to wish Olivia harm. As far as Durmstrang goes, I have my work cut out for me. Karkaroff is not the problem—it’s those who put him in charge.”

“Indeed. And… I wouldn’t expect anything less of you if Gia were put at disadvantage.”

They were nearing the office when Minerva came striding towards them. Tears of joy sparkled in her eyes; her entire countenance radiated relief. Discarding the protocol, she ignored Giacomo and went straight for the headmaster, hugging him with all her might.

“Oh, Albus, Harry was brilliant! Lily and James would have been so proud. I can’t even describe how glad I am.”

He enfolded her in response; her emotion was contagious, and unless he controlled himself, he would be weeping with her in no time. Giacomo’s ministerial robes were what averted the danger: at the sight of them, Minerva all but lashed out.

“Can’t you Ministry people give us some privacy for _five minutes_?!”

He granted her a polite if slightly embarrassed smile. “Most certainly. Albus, I’ll… go and check on my wife.”

He walked away, leaving them locked in an embrace. Albus could not recall ever seeing the witch so delighted. And whatever the future held in store, this moment would always stay sacred in his memory.


	12. Visitations Before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

Over the years, Albus had conducted a variety of job interviews, and what he had once perceived as a pleasure had soon acquired a disagreeable flavour. Nearly every vacancy at Hogwarts was related to Defence Against the Dark Arts, for which he usually had little choice but to hire the only candidate willing to apply. On this day, however, the sense of novelty had returned. He had a house-elf to interview.

It was manifest the applicant enjoyed his freedom: there was flamboyance to his immaculate shorts, his mismatched socks, his colourful tie, and his tea cosy, which he wore in the guise of a hat. He was accompanied by a female elf, whose very disposition could not have been more different. True, her blue set of clothes was neat and tailored, but it looked neglected nevertheless, and her brown eyes held the numb expression of a being that had spent months in the throes of melancholy. One could tell that, unlike her enthusiastic companion, she was fighting the urge to flee, to hide her shame.

This desolate elf was a stranger to Albus, though he remembered the one who called himself Dobby. A year and a half had passed since the little creature had entered the headmaster’s office on Lucius Malfoy’s heels. Without a doubt, freedom had come as a blessing to Dobby.

“Oh, but I know you,” Albus said amiably. “You are Harry Potter’s friend.”

Dobby beamed, ears standing to attention. “Yes, sir! Dobby knows Harry Potter well—Harry Potter freed Dobby. He is a great and noble wizard, sir.”

“That is very true. Welcome to Hogwarts, Dobby.” The headmaster glanced at the house-elf clad in blue. “I don’t believe we have met, but I’m honoured you have come. My name is Albus Dumbledore.”

His words elicited a mistrustful reaction; she still would not speak to him.

“This is Winky, sir,” Dobby said with a wave towards her. “She was given clothes last summer, and Dobby offered that we look for work together.”

Winky’s chin trembled. A few feet away, Lompy, the head of the Hogwarts house-elves, contemplated the newcomers, his small hands clasped behind his back. Albus had deemed it just to invite him to the hiring of their new charges.

“Dobby thinks Hogwarts is a very good place for two house-elves to find work,” Dobby went on before a line of worry crossed his face. “But Dobby isn’t sure if they can ask. You see, sir, Dobby hears that you need seaweed to come to work at Hogwarts.”

“Seaweed?” After an instant, it dawned on the wizard that Dobby had to be referring to CV. “Oh, no, no, that’s not necessary. Could you please tell me a little about yourself, Dobby? That’s all I will need.”

Reassured, his candidate resumed eagerly, “Dobby was bound to the Malfoys, sir. Dobby worked for his masters for many years. It was… difficult, sir. Dobby would give anything to be free, and then he hears his masters speak about a terrible Dark plot at Hogwarts, and he goes to warn Harry Potter about the danger. Dobby is sure this day changed everything.” He paused; wonder tinged his voice. “Harry Potter is kind and modest, and he offers Dobby a seat like an equal. It breaks Dobby’s heart to put Harry Potter in trouble, sir, but Dobby does it anyway to save Harry Potter’s life. It gets more and more difficult to serve his masters, sir, but there is no chance they would ever free Dobby. Only, Harry Potter finds a way! And Dobby becomes a free elf.” He drew himself to his full height. “Dobby likes clothes, sir, and he likes freedom, but he still likes work very much and can do everything he’s told. Dobby just doesn’t want to serve wizards—he wants to work well, and be paid like a wizard.”

At this, Lompy averted his head, much like a delicate butler confronted with an indiscretion. Winky did not conceal her disapproval: she could not help but whimper.

“Very well,” Albus declared with a smile that masked his astonishment. This was the first time he had encountered a house-elf who not only welcomed freedom but also asked for equal rights to wizards. It was bold and refreshing. “Thank you for sharing your story with us, Dobby. I will give out orders, and you will be regularly paid for your work. Let me see…”

He retrieved a worn folder from the top drawer of his desk; it contained that year’s official pay grades.

“We could create a new position for you—one that is roughly equivalent to the Hogwarts caretaker’s job. Wages depend on various factors, but I will do my best to accommodate any expectations you may have. Have you thought how much you would like to be paid?”

Dobby opened his mouth and then closed it again, uncertain perhaps, or surprised at being taken seriously. By his side, Winky was wringing her hands with indignity; as for Lompy, his wide-eyed expression suggested he was listening to profanities.

“Uh… Dobby doesn’t want much, sir,” came a nervous answer. “Dobby just… uh…”

It stood to reason he knew very little of the value of money, if anything at all. Albus hurried to his rescue.

“It’s all right; let’s go through it together. There is such a thing as the minimum wage—it’s prescribed by the law and amounts to about three Galleons a month. You, Dobby, deserve more than that: as a house-elf with years of experience, I believe you could be earning from ten to fifteen Galleons per quarter. Keep in mind that everyone who receives wages has to pay taxes, which is a sizable amount deducted from your earnings by the Ministry of Magic. Naturally, you will have time off on weekends, and the annual holiday is—“

A fearful shiver interrupted his explanation.

“Dobby can’t take weekends off, sir; that is too much. Dobby isn’t lazy, Dobby likes to work and will show it! One day off a month and one Galleon, please, sir—it will pay for Dobby’s clothes and everything else he needs.”

Albus bit his lip. On one hand, he did not wish to cause offence—for all his eccentricity, Dobby reasoned like a house-elf, and his logic would never match a human’s. On the other hand, justifying such a draconian employment contract would present a legal challenge. He doubted whether there was a precedent for it.

“One Galleon a week it is,” he compromised. “Like I said, taxes will be deducted from your every wage; this applies to the entire staff. If you insist on having but one day off a month, I will agree to it as long as our golden rule is maintained: no house-elf at Hogwarts works more than eight hours a day. There are enough of you to take shifts and complete a day’s work.” He smiled. “Lompy arranges the shifts. He will settle you in and specify your tasks, depending on where your help is needed most. Do not hesitate to consult him on anything you wish. He is an excellent leader, well-loved by all the house-elves.”

Lompy perked up, beaming at the praise.

“I will have a contract made for you,” the headmaster added. “It will become valid as soon as we sign it together.”

A shadow of discomfort fleeted across Dobby’s features. Like most house-elves, he had not been taught to read or write.

“Worry not, I will guide you every step of the way and will read the document to you. To ensure complete transparency, I can also call in witnesses or take a Truth Potion beforehand.” Albus leaned in, apologetic. “I wish we could skip these formalities, but sadly, we cannot. This procedure serves to protect your rights and to lay down our duties towards each other.”

“If Lompy may,” the senior elf intervened for the first time, “all the new house-elves has to swear loyalty to Hogwarts and bind themself to the new master.”

This piece of news appeared to alarm Dobby even more deeply than the promise of riches and paperwork had done.

“That is correct,” the wizard pointed out. “However, since you, Dobby, are a free elf, we won’t be performing the tethering ritual. That’s why I have opted for a regular contract. You can keep wearing clothes of your choice.”

The little creature let out an audible sigh of relief. “Professor Dumbledore is most kind, sir! Dobby is happy to be at Hogwarts! Dobby will do everything he is asked, and keep his master’s secrets.”

“Thank you, Dobby; Hogwarts is fortunate to have you.” Albus chuckled. “You don’t have to call me _master_ either— _Professor Dumbledore_ will do. Why, you will find out soon enough that most employees refer to me as a _barmy old codger_ when they think I can’t hear them.”

Lompy looked at the ceiling, politely indignant. It was high time to grant some attention to Winky as well, for the exchange had only served to upset her.

“I would like to help you feel content and fulfilled at Hogwarts, Winky. Is there anything special I can do for you?”

She threw him a mutinous glare, and, as if unable to restrain herself any longer, burst into loud sobs.

“Winky is still sad about being sacked, sir,” Dobby confided over her wailing. “She was close to her family. But she is a very good worker too, sir, Dobby can promise.”

This assurance prompted Lompy to raise his tiny eyebrows in disbelief. The house-elf society was not devoid of its own prejudice, and those who found themselves presented with clothes often bore the stigma of incompetence or disloyalty. Sure enough, Winky’s cries increased in volume.

“Bad Winky!” she chided herself again and again. “Poor Mr Crouch, what is he doing without his Winky?”

Albus sat up straighter. So Winky used to serve the Crouch family. He would have liked nothing more than to ask her several questions, except pressuring her would have been both fruitless and dishonourable when she was in such a state. If she had never renounced her bond with Barty Crouch, she would certainly refuse to disclose any information on him. For the same reason, she was far from ready to work for another wizard.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your plight,” he said gently. “Please rest assured you will always have a place to stay at Hogwarts. You don’t have to work; take all the time you need.”

Dobby alone acknowledged the gesture.

“Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, sir! You is not going to regret taking us on.”

Another courtesy or two, and they were led out by Lompy, whose opinion on his new charges—whom he saw as a couple of beggars leeching off a soft-hearted master—was patent.

As far as Albus was concerned, the house-elves’ arrival was an auspicious sign. Among other points, it revealed Barty Crouch had lost both his house-elf and his faithful owl in a truly short span of time. It was not a coincidence.

He peered into his planner, realised no meetings had been scheduled for the following hour, and made up his mind. If he resorted to Floo powder and transported himself straight to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Crouch would have no means of evading him. He intended to try to persuade the man to take Winky back; if this failed, he would at least attempt to uncover the secret plaguing that household.

Once again, he had hoped in vain. It was Percy Weasley he caught at Crouch’s desk; the older wizard was nowhere in sight.

“Oh, professor, Master—I mean, Mr Crouch is currently unavailable. A terrible fiasco with that Chinese dragon—Mr Crouch has to sort it out. He left me in charge.”

There was unmistakable pride in the young man’s voice. What was more, it had gained a challenging undertone, which had been absent only two months earlier. Albus frowned, ignoring Percy’s attitude for the time being. Considering how endangered the Fireball was known to be, the Chinese Ministry of Magic alone had a say in this species’ reproduction and export. Lending one of their finest nesting mothers for the Tournament had been an act of goodwill. Albus could vividly imagine their reaction at discovering their beautiful animal in a maimed condition, half her eggs destroyed.

“Is he in Romania? Then I will have to come back another day. My apologies for disturbing you, Mr Weasley.”

“Professor—sir—wait,” Percy called commandingly. “Mr Crouch has something for you: a contract you need to sign.”

He cleared his throat, his airs important and positively sanctimonious.

“That incident has been a blow not only to our Ministry, but to the international magical cooperation as a whole; I hope you understand that. Something like this must not happen again. Mr Crouch cannot treat the Hogwarts staff as children; it is not his job. Mr Crouch is stressed out as it is, and it’s not fair that he’s had to travel to Romania to personally apologise to the Chinese delegation when it’s the fault of certain wizards at Hogwarts for letting the situation get this far. You should thank Mr Crouch profoundly as soon as he returns, and apologise too because he’s the one solving this mess. You are all adult witches and wizards at Hogwarts, and your incompetence cannot be excused. How you let it get out of control is beyond me! It’s just outrageous. As such, we—ah, Mr Crouch—Ministry—we think you ought to ensure no similar disasters happen again, and you should be held responsible. Mr Crouch has taken the time to prepare a contract. Read it carefully and sign.”

Albus gazed at him. The last time a boy Percy’s age had dared to address him in this fashion, England had still been called Edwardian. How exactly Barty Crouch chose to guide his young assistant, he neither knew nor cared. Only, anyone could tell this young assistant had tasted power, drunk deeply of it, become addicted, and forgotten all manners and respect.

He did not spare the contract a glance.

“I won’t be signing this, Mr Weasley,” he announced. “As much as I disapprove of the Conjunctivitis Curse, Mr Krum was within his right to cast it. Nothing in the rules forbids the champions from attacking the magical creatures they face. If the Ministry wishes to abide by ethical principles, the guidelines should be changed: make it clear any champion who harms an animal will be disqualified or penalised with a significant deduction of points. It’s the only way to solve this problem, I’m afraid. Hogwarts will not be held accountable for any inconvenience caused by poor organisation.”

“But Mas—Mr Crouch said it was your responsibility because… ah…”

Apparently, the young man was uncertain how to argue his point. His rant died down at once.

“I’ll be happy to discuss it with _Master_ _Crouch_ upon his arrival—I’ll be in my office at his earliest convenience.” Albus hitched on an icy smile. “Do you mind if I use your fireplace to get back to school?”

“Eh, um… all right, yes, yes. But I’ve already cleaned the desk, so be careful, um, sir?”

This was closer to old Percy, one he had always known. Suppressing a disappointed headshake, Albus tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire and stepped amid the emerald flames.

“Good day to you, Mr Weasley.”

Two weeks elapsed. Christmas was approaching, and Albus dedicated an entire afternoon to composing a list of gifts for his family, friends, and colleagues while an enchanted quill signed its way through five hundred cards addressed to his various acquaintances. He had no idea how Muggles managed these tasks without magic or helpers when they had so many daily chores to perform. He, at least, was fortunate enough to have house-elves at his disposal; as long as he presented them with detailed instructions, they carried out his shopping impeccably.

It was nearly four o’clock when he finished, and he walked downstairs, marvelling at the new decorations. One could never have decided what was more striking: the frosted bannisters covered in mistletoe and complemented with flickering lights, the colourful toys peeking from the artfully arranged mounds of enchanted snow, the long crystal icicles rimming the staircases, or the twelve superb trees in the Great Hall. They had been ornamented in the same colour palette, yet each of them was unique, and they all glowed with magic. Filius Flitwick lingered near the last tree, an open box at his feet.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Albus said, coming closer. “I’ve never seen the castle so magnificent. I could spend hours admiring this Hall alone.”

“Oh, thank you.” Filius smiled, untangling two glittering strings. “Took me a while, but I’m almost done. The tags arrived today.”

He nodded at the box, which contained small cards. Every year, one of the Christmas trees was devoted to a charity. The previous year, they had partnered with St Oswald’s Home for Old Witches and Wizards; the year before that, with an orphanage. This time, they were reaching out to St Mungo’s Hospital. Anyone at Hogwarts could pick a tag belonging to a person in need and purchase a gift.

To help Filius, Albus retrieved a bunch of cards and levitated them onto the branches. Names and numbers flitted before his eyes.

_Walter, 48_   
_Wish list: Book on the cultures of wizarding Asia_

_Artemisia, 63_   
_Wish list: Body cosmetics, sweets_

_Paul, 22_   
_Wish list: Hat, gloves, scarf_

_Rose, 97_   
_Wish list: Invigoration Draught_

He felt his eyes prickle. It was impossible not to recall Ariana: there had once been a solid possibility she would become one of St Mungo’s permanent residents. His memories notwithstanding, something heartbreaking suffused every one of those wishes.

Filius shared his sentiment; their eyes met, grave and quiet. Then a question tore out of the younger wizard.

“Do you think next year will be… any better?”

Albus slid Walter’s card into his pocket. Getting an interesting book for a wizard was the least he could do.

“I hope so. But I fear our trouble isn’t over.”

A shuffling sound prompted them to turn around. Sybill Trelawney had emerged, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl, a mug of tea in her hands. It was rare for her to come down to socialise with the others.

“How are you doing today, Sybill?” Albus asked.

She shrugged, advancing to inspect the tags.

“All right, I suppose, headmaster. I was crystal-gazing, and my Orb showed me the Great Hall, only it was full of dancing couples. I wanted to take a look at the decorations.”

“So did I. If I could paint, I wouldn’t resist right now,” he agreed. 

Filius accepted the compliment with a tactful nod and a blush. “Any plans for Christmas, Sybill?”

“The usual.” She shrugged again. “I’ll stay at Hogwarts, knitting and listening to old songs. Still more interesting than my empty cottage—at least _something_ is happening here. My cousins aren’t too keen on having me around, and I’m not the sort of person who will force their company on those who don’t value it.”

The wizards exchanged a furtive glance; both anticipated an outpour of emotion.

“Well, you are welcome to spend the festivities with us,” the headmaster assured her. “The ball should be good fun, and opportunities for divination are endless this time of the year.”

“I mean,” she went on, oblivious to his words, “it used to be my favourite holiday, but ever since Mr Higglebottom walked out on me, the whole season feels tainted, you know? Who leaves their spouse on Boxing Day? All because I wouldn’t adopt his surname, which is ridiculous. The Trelawney name carries weight: everyone knows we are an illustrious family of Seers. And whether we like it or not, names are important: you can owe your social standing to them, _and_ your job, _and_ your reputation. Why would someone who claims to love you expect you to give up a family heirloom? A name is as good as an heirloom. So that’s what my Christmas is about, year after year: solitude, and the knowledge that no one has ever truly loved me—not even the man who swore to hold me till _death do us part_.”

The Hall rang with silence at the end of her speech. Had it not been for Charity Burbage’s arrival, the heavy ambience would have been difficult to lift. The young witch swept towards them, her eyes glinting with excitement.

“Headmaster, I’ve been looking for you. May I talk to you for a minute?”

With an apology towards Filius and Sybill, Albus joined her on a student bench.

“It’s about the Yule Ball,” Charity admitted, her fingers worrying the fabric of her skirt. “You mentioned we might be allowed to bring a guest from outside of Hogwarts.”

“We are; it’s just necessary to fill out a form for the Ministry—they insist on being informed if strangers attend the event. A few forms are still available. Are you planning on inviting your significant other?”

“I’d like to, and Andrew would absolutely love to come. But you see, he’s a Muggle, and I know it’s… a little problematic to arrange. That’s why I came to you.”

Albus’s curious smile faltered. He hated causing distress, especially over requests as innocent as these. He laid a soothing hand over her nervous fingers.

“Charity, dear, we aren’t free to bring Muggles to Hogwarts. I’m very sorry.”

“I know.” She heaved a sigh and seemed to poise herself for argumentation without much hope for success. “But Andrew won’t tell anyone or draw attention to himself. He is very open-minded about magic; he only wants to see the castle I grew up in and where I spend so much time. We would eat dinner, dance, and then go home.”

“I understand.” It was the headmaster’s turn to sigh. “Truly, I do. It’s going to be a special evening, and you wish to spend it together, to share the experience. If it were up to me alone, I would personally welcome Andrew here.”

Her almond-shaped blue-grey eyes were sad like a child’s.

“What if I magically disguised him?” she offered tentatively. “It’s just… I came to you because I know you don’t agree with the law. You said it yourself: it’s unfair that we have to hide from Muggles—even those who would gladly accept us.”

“And I stand by that belief.” He gave her hand a small squeeze. “I would do anything to have the Statute of Secrecy replaced with a reasonable and humane system. Sadly, we don’t live in that world, not for a long time to come, and breaking the law has serious consequences. There will be Ministry officials at the ball. If they spot a Muggle in their midst, they will likely escort him out and Obliviate him, and then they will be on your case. I promise to find a way of making it up to you and Andrew; I just can’t let you get in trouble.”

Crestfallen, she pulled her fingers from his grasp and stood up.

“All right. I’ll… see you later, headmaster.”

Her long hair wafted behind her as she left. Albus got to his feet. While they had spoken, Filius had retired to his quarters, but Sybill was present still, and judging by her bitter expression and her strong grip on the mug, she had been listening in.

“Some problems people have,” she grumbled. “I wish _I_ had someone to come home to after work. My fondest Christmas memory involves one Mr Higglebottom slamming the door in my face.”

Albus could think of no response that would not sound pitying. With a smile and an even _If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to my office_ , he headed for the doors.

It was silence that stopped him—an impression of unnatural stillness, which descended as abruptly as if a muffling blanket had dropped down around them. He spun on his heels. The witch had gone rigid; she had straightened up, her posture frozen, her eyes wide behind her spectacles.

“Sybill.” He strode to her side. “Sybill, are you all right?”

But he already knew what was happening, knew his questions would do no good. At this instant, Professor Trelawney was not in possession of her body; she had become a vessel to something otherworldly, something far from human. Her mouth opened, and, sure enough, the voice pouring out of her chest was deep and harsh and imperious, most unlike her own.

“Fire of blue. Fire of red. Fire of white. A handless murderer, undone by mercy, will invoke us. The Dark Lord will arise, sewing discord and slander, walls of silence, pits of rage, until nothing remains but darkness, darkness, and rampage.”

Her head fell to her chest; her thin frame sagged. It was not until half a minute later that she inhaled and her eyelids fluttered open.

“Yes, very few fond memories indeed, so I try to avoid my deserted cottage when possible. And—is everything all right, headmaster?”

Albus composed his startled features.

“Quite all right, Sybill. I’m glad you’ll be staying at Hogwarts. I hope to see you soon; for now, I have to excuse myself.”

He patted her arm, carefully assessing whether she had recovered her strength, and mounted the stairs to his office. Once there, he placed Walter’s tag on top of his Christmas shopping list, summoned the Pensieve and, thus assisted, wrote down the words of Sybill’s prophecy.

It was a grim one. The news of Voldemort’s return brought little surprise: he had lately come to believe it was a mere matter of time. As long as he protected Harry from the fate reserved for him by his foe…

The mention of a _murderer undone by mercy_ suggested Wormtail’s participation. If so, under which circumstances would the Animagus lose one or both hands? An inkling told Albus an important clue could be extracted from this detail. And then there was the ritual that would yet be taking place: _a handless murderer will invoke us_. The eerie _us_ sent a shiver down his spine. This entity, whatever it was, had chosen to bestow its warning on Albus, to help him. It was essential that he interpret the prediction correctly. This brought his attention to the very beginning: _fire of blue, fire of red, fire of white_. Were those the lights of spells? Identifying them could point him towards the ritual Voldemort would attempt to perform.

He felt it suddenly. One moment, he was leaning over his notes, completely alone unless he counted the sleeping portraits—Fawkes was out flying over the school grounds. The next moment, a pair of eyes stared at his back. He sat up. Someone was approaching: a magical aura, as dense and vivid as if a person were standing beside him. He knew that aura intimately: it was Dark, energetic, enticing, and it pulsated with power. It was the best aura in the world.

“Gellert,” he breathed, turning on the spot.

No one was there, only the incorporeal, invisible aura. Stunned, Albus stepped towards the cabinet that held his memory vials. His office contained no mirrors, but the glass panes of the cabinet provided a clear reflection, and on their surface, he glimpsed a face next to his own. Two familiar sapphire blue eyes.

It lasted a heartbeat. The image dissipated before he could focus on it properly, and he was alone again, undeniably so. Yet he could have sworn Gellert had touched his shoulder.

How had his beloved succeeded in transporting himself? No one could escape from Nurmengard, not physically and not spiritually either—decades ago, Albus himself had considered every way of infiltrating the tower, desperate to rescue its prisoner. As far as he could tell, breaching the defences around Hogwarts was quite impossible as well. The only explanation his imagination could conjure was too ghastly to think of, let alone formulate out loud. But if he, Albus, were to pass away before Gellert, he _would_ come to Nurmengard in his spirit form for one last embrace.

He was barely aware of dashing through the corridors and cared not whether anyone paused to gape. He knew not how he Apparated to Austria without splinching himself from sheer panic. Suppressing the urge to throw his wand at the guard, he waited to be admitted upstairs and positively ran to the topmost cell. Sweat was trickling down his forehead; fear alone prevented him from collapsing.

 _It cannot have happened. Anything but this_.

The door swung open on the German wizard, who was seated by the wall. He was smiling, but the smile vanished instantly at the wild expression on Albus’s face. Without skipping a beat, the latter hurried forth to take Gellert’s head between his palms.

“Are you all right?”

“Albus—yes, I am very well. I’m sorry. What happened now was supposed to be a surprise. Happy winter solstice.”

The Englishman sat back, struggling to quieten his hammering heart—his vision was becoming a dark blur. It was as though his body had slipped out of his control. At last, he could trust himself to utter, “And… to you. I’m… sorry. I…”

He wiped at his eyes. Gellert drew closer, embraced him.

“I will explain. There is no need to worry. Just breathe, Schatz.”

Albus did so. Little by little, his vision cleared, and the sense of panic ebbed away. He touched the other wizard’s cheek.

“How—what happened?”

“I made a good use of the candles. Want to see?”

At his nod, Gellert proceeded towards the other end of the cell, where he bent down, revealing a loose stone. Beneath it were concealed the Haitian candles, as well as a box of ordinary matches, the sort Muggles resorted to. The last item was a sachet full of what resembled gravel: brick dust and tiny pebbles.

“Making this took most work, in fact. Since I’m not allowed any objects, it’s the only way I can create intelligible signs without having to draw them, you see: all I need to do is arrange the pebbles and brick dust in the required patterns. Tonight, I needed to get out of the cell and pay you a brief visit. It was supposed to be a surprise. I’m sorry I startled you.”

“You astral-projected to my office.” The revelation was mind-blowing. It meant there was a way for Gellert to be free, to practice magic, even if his physical body could not leave the prison. With a gasp of delight, Albus captured him in his arms. “This is wonderful news. So the enchantment in those candles neutralises mago-suppressive spells. You are careful, aren’t you? I’m only surprised the protection around Hogwarts isn’t as thorough as I thought—not that I complain.”

“Oh, it is thorough, but you’re forgetting it’s winter solstice. On the longest night of the year, spirits and deities are the ones in charge; Seers can be sent unexpected visions, and wizards who deal with higher magicks have a better chance at succeeding at otherwise challenging endeavours. Even magical households would be well-advised to increase their protection if they wish to ward off unwanted visitors. Besides, I used to be decent at Conjuring. So I gave it a shot.”

“Thank you.” Having calmed down, Albus understood his lover’s gesture had been intended as a Christmas present. As they clasped hands, he considered the candles—all of them were showing signs of use. “It’s true—my Divination teacher made a prophecy just an hour ago. I’m thinking, though… It would be best if I learned to cast the spell that permeates these candles. They won’t last forever—not to mention the guards might find them. I can bring you chalk and anything else you need.”

But his first statement had seized Gellert’s curiosity.

“One of your teachers made a prophecy?”

Taking a few seconds to recall the exact formulation, the Englishman recited the warning.

“ _Fire of blue, fire of red, fire of white_. _A handless murderer, undone by mercy, will invoke us. The Dark Lord will arise, sewing discord and slander, walls of silence, pits of rage, until nothing remains but darkness, darkness, and rampage._ ”

It was met with a sigh.

“They never speak clearly, do they?” Gellert shook his head. “Between the deities’ messages and the official wording of all the wizarding laws that currently exist, I’m not sure which one is worse. One thing leaves no doubt—our young friend is coming back—but of course, we knew this much already. Step closer, Albus; I want to show you something.”

Under his guidance, Albus stationed himself in the middle of the cell. The German wizard’s first action was to light four out of his five candles before carefully spilling the contents of the sachet in a wide, incomplete circle. What remained of the pebbles and dust was arranged in the shape of hieroglyphic symbols around the circle’s perimeter and complemented with the candles. This done, Gellert joined the other man inside the formation before lighting the last candle and adjusting the gravel to close the circle. A flick of his match, and the fifth little flame sprang to life. So did the entire cell.

The two wizards now stood in the faint glow of a pentagon formed by the candles. The atmosphere inside the circle had, all of a sudden, grown lighter, as though they had found themselves in sunlight, in nature. Outside of it, however… Albus had to blink repeatedly, for the sight was too chilling for words. Swirling black mist was floating in the air, seeping through the walls and floor and ceiling, curling around the protective formation, probing it. The Dark energies of Nurmengard, rendered visible by virtue of the candles’ magic.

“Did the Ministry do this?” he whispered. “Or was it here from the start?”

“I think… I did it.” Gellert drew a deep breath. “Do you still happen to remember Wei, Albus?”

Li Wei had been one of Gellert’s followers and his designated bodyguard. A duellist of immense power, he had attempted to protect his master from Albus, unaware of the latter’s true loyalties. Luck was the only reason the Englishman had survived their duel.

“I remember him well. I went to see him once after he was incarcerated. I’d like to believe our conversation explained some matters and helped him ever so little, but I will never know for sure.”

“Wei was… an interesting wizard,” Gellert mused. “Very devoted to me, very loyal in his own way. He told me about himself. He was born to a noble pure-blood family. You know all too well how tradition-bound pure-bloods tend to be, and it’s no different in wizarding China—in many aspects, it’s even worse there. Long story short, he was expected to marry a noble witch of his standing. He would have done, no doubt: I’ve hardly ever met a wizard so bent on following tradition. But it didn’t come to be because he fell for a girl by the name of Gao Xin, who was a Squib. In China, most Squibs are no better off than house-elves in English households. The country has numerous laws to determine in what manner Squibs are to be owned and handled, and in some cases, even sold. They are never set free, for this could lead Muggles to learn of their existence and breach the Statute of Secrecy. There are also enchantments designed to marginalise them, so that everybody would recognise them for what they are; for instance, a Squib girl will never be able to grow long hair, the way witches and Muggles can do—magic won’t allow it. Yet Wei fell in love with a Squib and thus brought shame on his family. You should have heard him talk about her—as if she had been the sole reason for his existence, as if his life had been empty before they had met. And then, one day, Xin was kidnapped and killed in a Dark ritual that demanded human sacrifice. It was a very gruesome death. Since she had been a Squib, the wizards around Wei never cared, never truly saw it as a crime; I believe the Chinese government is very little concerned about Squibs’ protection. To make it worse, Wei was congratulated on this turn of events: everyone claimed this was a good opportunity for him to start over and clear his name once he apologised to the families he had insulted. Except Wei… he, for once, was done with tradition.”

Albus’s gaze had softened at the story. He had never known. For the first time, he understood exactly what had driven the man who had so resembled a statue.

“So he found you instead,” he concluded. “He embraced your cause and decided to follow you, to make the world a better place, so that no one else would have to live through such tragedies.”

Gellert nodded.

“The idea of punishing the criminals who hide behind the Statute of Secrecy appealed to him a great deal. I just happened to be offering the best solution he could find at the time: a society where all lives, those of Muggles and wizards alike, would be valued and protected. You know all about it: both our fathers were forced to use magic against Muggles, and both were arrested and died in prison. If Wei had managed to find the monsters who had murdered his Xin, he would have ended up in the same situation as our fathers, no doubt. But he couldn’t find them. He was broken, unable to gain peace, and all his pleas fell on deaf ears. So eventually, he found me. He accepted he would likely never track down the murderers, and he agreed the problem went deeper than that: that the entire wizarding society, be it in the West or in the East, needed a reform. He proved very useful to me. And his story is what inspired _this_.”

He gestured vaguely towards the black fog that was creeping around them.

“I wanted to put them here: the criminals, the cowards who committed atrocities and got away with them because the Ministries operating under the Statute of Secrecy could not or didn’t care to make a difference. I wanted them to feel helpless, alone, oppressed by their own agonising thoughts until they lost their minds. It’s the worst punishment there is, and much more reliable than the Dementors. Except… in the end, I’m the one who has to bear it all. Not a cheerful winter solstice story, I’m afraid, Albus.”

The other wizard swallowed. He turned away from the mist, his embrace comforting.

“Oh, Schatz, I wish you’d told me sooner. I would have started looking for a counter-curse ages ago. If I have to go to Haiti to learn it, I will. We have to purify your cell of Dark magic—the candles will only last for so long.”

“I wasn’t entirely convinced anything this potent really existed,” Gellert confessed with a shrug. “Naturally, all magic is dual in nature and there is a counter-spell to everything, but finding a witch or a wizard who knows how to perform it is another matter. Every single stone here is imbued with Darkness; I made it so. These walls attract… bad energies, if you will. Just pay attention to the guards when you leave: the more time they spend here, the worse their spirits grow. They may put it down to tiredness and whatnot—Muggle excuses, really—but then again, very few people dabble in this type of magic. You may want to find out more about the creator of these candles before you go to meet them in person. Anyone who has mastered such arts is a force to be reckoned with. And if you don’t succeed in finding them… Well, I will save the candles for as long as I can. It was a truly special gift, Albus. Being able to practice magic is one of the best presents a wizard can receive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Harry Potter Wiki, JKR determined the value of a Galleon to be roughly equal to £5. In this story, we decided to disregard this piece of canon information due to the inconsistencies it may bring. As we know, Galleons are made of gold—a noble and expensive metal. We reckon a large, heavy golden coin cannot be worth £5, even if we are dealing with the world of wizards. Here is how we came up with an alternative value. 
> 
> The licensed replicas of Galleons have the diameter of 40 mm, and their thickness amounts to 5 mm. A great deal depends on the percentage of fine gold in the coin: it will affect its weight and ultimate value. For the sake of convenience, we opted for 333 gold, which is 33% pure gold and 67% other metals. The combination of these parameters results in a coin that would weigh 68 g (calculated by a website dedicated to such topics). We could argue goblins prided themselves on producing finer coins with a more significant amount of pure gold, but this would render a handful of Galleons very heavy indeed. Of course, wizards may have used a charm to render their gold weightless, but it wouldn’t solve the fact that a large percentage of pure gold would drastically drive up the value of a single coin. Besides, it doesn’t seem as though goblins felt human wizards deserved great finery. 
> 
> In 1994, the price of gold oscillated around £8 per gram. So we have a coin of 68 g, only a third of which is pure gold (approx. 23 g). £8 x 23 g = £184. We rounded this up to £200 to take into account the cost of the 67% other metals.
> 
> In conclusion, 1 Galleon (ʛ1) would have been worth £200 at the time when this story takes place. 
> 
> Now, minimum wages in 1994 were £3.4 per hour, that is ʛ0.017 per hour. Back then, a work week in the UK could have anywhere between 40 and 48 hours. We believe Albus was a caring and considerate headmaster, so he wouldn’t expect his employees to work above 40 hours a week. This would mean someone with the minimum wage rate would earn ʛ0.68 a week at Hogwarts; that is ʛ35 a year, therefore ʛ3 a month on average (taxes would apply to these rounded brutto amounts). 
> 
> All things considered, Dobby’s salary of a Galleon a week wasn’t bad, except for the lack of days off. It does invalidate his claim of “Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week” in this version, but it could have been a misunderstanding if Dobby wasn’t fully aware of the value of gold. 
> 
> As a side note, purchasing a wand (ʛ7) under this system is an expensive endeavour, especially if a family has more than one or two children. But considering how difficult wandmaking is and the rare know-how and magical ingredients it requires, it seems to be a fair price to pay, and an investment too. A wand is, after all, a wizard’s most important possession, one he will keep for life and sometimes hand down the generations. The Ollivanders are billionaires without question. 
> 
> Our apologies for this exceptionally long addendum. If we have made any rookie mistake in our reasoning, please feel free to let us know—we understand this substitute version is far from perfect.


	13. A Dance before the Witching Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In times of mounting danger, a reluctant leader finally discards the burden of his past. The events of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” written from Albus Dumbledore’s point of view.

A sparkling layer of snow blanketed the school grounds on Christmas morning. The atmosphere was languid in the castle and its courtyards. Year after year, Albus met this day with an unvarying ritual: he stood at the window, his gaze lost in the snowy distance, and pondered his good fortune. 

There had been different periods in his life: he had known delirious happiness, succeeded by the deepest despair. Yet now that the year had reached its close, he preferred to focus solely on his best recollections. It was his father’s smile, his words of affection and the warmth of his embrace that shone most brightly in his early memories. There was Ariana as well, her blond curls flying as she twirled in her new dress, a pale green one—a luxury in those days. Like a delicate bell, her laughter rang out in his mind, as vivid as if it had occurred yesterday. Another special part of his heart belonged to Bathilda Bagshot; he could picture her younger self entering her parlour, a book in one hand and a plateful of freshly baked cauldron cakes in another. Even as her lips curved in a sardonic grin, her eyes betrayed fond emotion. And how could he forget the Hogwarts of his youth? Mysterious yet hospitable, the school had become both a sanctuary and a riddle to him: every day would reveal a new surprise and more books than he could ever read, though it was not for the lack of trying. As for the summer of 1899… its days and nights had brought him joy without equal.

It was strange, perhaps, but he could swear something—or someone—watched over him, had always done so, even during his darkest years, which he had spent working round the clock from fear of finding himself alone with his thoughts. How many times had he faced mortal peril, only to survive by what had seemed to be pure luck? This was not all: by an unfathomable turn of circumstances, he was constantly surrounded by kindly, talented, and well-intentioned people. Numerous wizards loathed him, that much was true, but they tended to keep their distance, as if repelled by his proximity. This particular blessing was, no doubt, the reason he had mustered the strength to endure the years of pain.

Whatever it was that protected him, it had not spared him an ounce of suffering; instead, it had provided him with the necessary tools to withstand it. Years had passed since, and he had much to be grateful for. He had a loving husband, who at last had recovered some of his magical freedom. He could not be prouder of his adoptive children, whose success was rivalled only by their family’s harmony. Fawkes, his familiar, was worth dying for. His colleagues had become his friends, and he delighted in working with them. All in all, he was far from alone against the foreboding future that loomed ahead, and he would do his duty towards anyone who relied on him.

When he turned away from the window, the pile of presents delivered in the night captured his attention. Beautifully wrapped packages took up his entire table and both chairs. With a sense of wondrous disbelief that refused to fade away with age, he approached to open them.

A lovely potted pink quill bore a card from Pomona; beneath it lay a vinyl record of Maurice Ravel’s most famous masterpieces, hand-picked by Filius. Severus had sent a batch of useful potions—like many wizards of his profession, he appreciated orderly routine far more than he did surprises, and his gift never varied; in return, the headmaster always gave him a book on the Dark Arts. Minerva’s box concealed a pair of warm gloves with a cheeky criss-cross pattern. A perfect fit.

“What did I tell you about expensive presents?” he muttered, touched.

Among copious books and food baskets, he noticed an ornate jar with a set of round, colourfully painted stones. As soon as he lowered those inside the glass, they arranged themselves into the constellation Virgo, his birth sign, and glowed bright, forming a charming lamp. He sighed in amazement.

“Thank you very much, Aurora.”

Since the d’Angellis had invited him to spend Boxing Day with them, they had agreed to exchange their presents in person after a family dinner. There was, however, one parcel delivered from Italy, and it displayed Olivia Ollivander’s signature. Inside it, he found a most exquisite box carved from wand wood, along with the best Italian coffee and pastries: as elegant a gift as the witch herself.

The last items came from the heads of the two foreign schools. Madame Maxime had settled for French chocolate—he hoped she would enjoy the array of fudge in various flavours he had packed for her. As for Karkaroff, his long bag concealed a bottle of Cauldron Spirit with a rather worn label, as if it had spent a while sitting in his private liquor cabinet. Still, it was a quality beverage, and Albus felt almost at fault for sending him Butterbeer as a private jab. Almost.

No sooner did he dispose of the wrapping paper than guilt started gnawing at him. Since Ariana’s demise, he and Aberforth no longer acknowledged each other at Christmas. No bond remained between them unless mutual aversion could be counted as such. The idea of presenting his brother with at least a card had surfaced more than once; only, Albus knew for certain the latter would throw it away unopened. And yet, Aberforth was one of the loneliest wizards he knew.

Torn between melancholy and gratitude, the headmaster went down to breakfast, where he was happy to exchange good wishes, words of thanks, and embraces with his colleagues. As he lowered himself into his chair, Miss Granger’s name reached his ears—Septima Vector had uttered it in her conversation with Bathsheda Babbling, the Ancient Runes teacher. A Christmas card lay open in front of her.

"It's all numbers," Bathsheda remarked.

"Precisely, it’s an equation; you need to solve it to read the message.” Septima smiled. “It's genius, really. Like I said, between the _Outstanding_ Miss Granger as good as bullied out of me and the _Outstanding_ Miss Greengrass deserves, there is a world of difference."

"So this, I take it, is a thank-you card from Miss Greengrass."

"Yes, the only student attentive enough to have sent me one. Good manners are not something you can buy at a Christmas market."

Bathsheda laughed. "Miss Greengrass sure has you wrapped around her little finger, my dear Septima. One could say, be careful when accepting gifts from highly talented Slytherin students."

The Arithmancy instructor waved a dismissive hand. "Old prejudice, to be honest. I wouldn't have given Miss Greengrass an _Outstanding_ if she hadn’t fully earned it. The girl truly is talented, and Severus agrees with me."

A sceptical smile was Bathsheda’s only response; she did not wish to argue. Unnoticed by both of them, the Potions Master had come close enough to overhear the discussion, and he nodded at Septima, his gesture unusually respectful.

"Quite right; Miss Granger's reputation is greatly exaggerated and works in her favour even when it is undeserved. Prejudice against my students, on the other hand, is sadly commonplace. And yet, isn't it Mr Potter and his sidekicks who are always caught blatantly breaking the rules, showing disrespect, and even endangering their fellow students? The whole attitude, I believe, ought to be re-evaluated here."

By Albus’s side, Minerva straightened up, her hands tense on her cutlery. It was fortunate no doubt that Severus changed the topic, addressing Albus.

"Headmaster, I need to talk to you. In private, please."

"Certainly; let us talk in my office right after breakfast. And thank you for the potions, Severus. Merry Christmas."

Still curious about Miss Greengrass’s achievement, the old wizard then turned towards Septima. "Do you mind if I take a look at that equation, dear?"

She passed him the card, and he saw the message was, indeed, conveyed as a lengthy mathematical formula. The temptation was too great: he started solving it on his napkin.

Moments later, a small commotion tore him out of the task: taking advantage of Madame Maxime’s trip to the bathroom, Karkaroff had accosted Aurora, claiming the vacant seat next to hers.

"Good morning. I hope to have ze honour of dancing viz you tonight."

"Oh…" Although taken aback, the Astronomy teacher quickly recovered. "It’s very… nice of you to offer, but… I'm afraid my dance card is looking rather full already. But I'm sure many of my colleagues would be delighted. One thing is certain: the witches of Hogwarts are great dancers."

"Yes, yes, so am I. Vot is zis dance card nonsense?"

At Aurora’s unease, Albus stepped in.

"It’s the booklet attached to your official Yule Ball invite—it lists all the dances scheduled for the evening. There is a blank space next to each dance, where you can write down your partner’s name. The idea is to have the booklet filled out in advance; this way, the evening will flow smoothly and there will be no need to search for a partner in a hurry."

"Vhy vould you make it so complicated?!" Karkaroff demanded. "Vot kind of vizards are you if you’re afraid to ask a vitch without a stinky piece of parchment?"

The staff table fell quiet. Even now, the man’s rudeness did not cease to shock certain teachers and anger others, especially Minerva.

"At Hogwarts, we respect tradition," Albus said innocently. "And this is an old one. In any case, Madame Maxime has raised no objection."

"An old tradition?" the other headmaster returned. "Yesterday's soup is old, Dumbledore!"

Having no chance to contribute to the organisation, though, there was little he could do but rage. With a shrug and a polite smile, Albus resumed his mathematical endeavour. Naturally, the Ukrainian did not give up.

"Vell, ve'll get zis sorted, never fear," he promised to Aurora, as if she had expressed displeasure. "Did you enjoy ze first task? You haff to agree Viktor came up wiz ze most impressive solution."

"To be honest, I’m still haunted by those heartbreaking shrieks of pain," the witch objected despite herself.

It earned her a chuckle. "You haff a soft heart. It's adorable in a voman." He then leaned in. "Haff you ever been in the north? I sink you'd razer enjoy Durmstrang. Ve often haff aurora borealis in vinter months—just like your name. Ze polar night too; so many zings you can do at night…"

If Olympe had not chosen that instant to re-emerge, there was no telling how much more disagreeable the situation could have become. As it was, her irritated cough came as a salvation.

“Professor Karkaroff, you are blocking the lady's seat," Albus called.

The man glanced around, realised it was true, and heaved a sigh. Before standing up, he did not deprive himself of kissing Aurora’s hand.

"Anyvay, sink about it. I'll pay you twice as much as Dumbledore does. See you soon, my beautiful."

With this, he finally regained his chair, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. Attempting to lure a teacher from one wizarding school to another violated an unwritten code of ethics; everyone was conscious of it. His appetite diminished, Albus finished solving the equation, which proved to conceal seasonal greetings, and handed the card back to Septima. Breakfast was over, and he had promised to speak to Severus in private. The two wizards were on their way to the exit when Karkaroff’s voice stopped them in their tracks.

"Dumbledore, vait.”

There was nothing for it; the older wizard shot Snape an apologetic look, and the latter walked away, his annoyance perceptible in spite of his inscrutable expression.

“I vos thinking,” the Durmstrang headmaster started, “if you insist on zat stupid old tradition… vell, zere can't be many dancers around anyway. Mad-Eye has got only one leg. We can kick him off zat list. Not to mention, if he is to dance wiz anyone, he vill only announce zey are soon to be murdered, and vot kind of dance vould zat be?"

"We cannot _kick_ dancers off anyone's lists, professor," Albus deadpanned.

"And vhy not?"

"Because we have no right to abuse our power. Professor Sinistra can dance with anyone she likes. If she has agreed to dance with Alastor, it’s her choice."

Karkaroff sighed again. "Let us hope zen he von’t crush her toes wiz his wooden leg. Good day to you."

Unless Albus was much mistaken, this was not the end of it; the man was likely spinning plans to detain Aurora for the entire evening and then take her to his cabin on the Durmstrang ship. Little did he know she had organised a seminar on Astronomy for those interested to observe the night sky after the ball. A number of volunteers had already signed up, and if such an event had occurred in the days of Albus’s studies, he knew he would have jumped at the occasion. The idea of watching the starry sky after an evening of Christmas festivities, clad in his dress robes, sufficed to make him daydream.

He retired to his room. Before the preparations began, he wished to spend a little time with his familiar, only the two of them in the armchair in front of the blazing fire.

Two hours elapsed like two minutes. It pained him to part from Fawkes, who so enjoyed playing and being caressed, but he had to oversee the changes in the Great Hall and the construction of a grotto in front of the main entrance. His duties included welcoming the Weird Sisters to Hogwarts and lending them private quarters where they could rehearse, dine, and rest. By the time seven o’clock came and went, he was too harried to feel hunger. He went upstairs to freshen up. His outfit was ready in the wardrobe: dark robes with an impressionistic pattern in green and shades of blue and lilac. 

“Do you approve?”

Fawkes reassured him with a merry chirp.

Many years ago, right in the middle of the seventies, he had glimpsed a fashionable lady in the streets of Chelsea and had fallen in love with her clothes: a long purple skirt, an off-the-shoulder blouse with golden accents, a waist-cinching belt, a gauzy scarf, a flattering headpiece. With its regal majesty, its feminine suppleness, its distinct nomadic touch and its hint of an Oriental fairy-tale, that look had been a work of art. He had never found out which Muggle designer had created it. One fact could not be argued: what a variety of outfits he could have worn, had he been born a lady! Nevertheless, he was happy with his dress robes.

The Great Hall shone and sparkled like the interior of an ice palace. All of the hundred tables were topped with lanterns, crackers, sprigs of holly, and nametags. Albus felt enchanted at the sight; he had every intention of paying the house-elves a call the following day to personally praise them for their exceptional work. He would have done so already, had he not worried his visit might disrupt their schedule.

Judging by the commotion in the entrance hall, the students were impatient to enter—it sounded indeed as though they meant to break down the oak doors and storm in. It was nearly the hour.

“Good evening.” He smiled at Alastor Moody, who nodded, indifferent to the grandeur of their ballroom.

Except for his discreet bow tie, the Auror had not changed from his morning clothes. He had never been one to celebrate Christmas either. In his opinion, the consumerist attitude would be the end of their society; besides, he claimed, nothing that came in a box could be trusted. Rolanda’s approach swiftly put his lifelong beliefs to a test. Attired in a long-sleeved black dress that called a stylish coat to mind, and which she wore over classic trousers, the witch was certain to turn heads. Her hair was windswept and voluminous, and smoky makeup highlighted the amber of her eyes. She considered Moody, one eyebrow arched in amused disapproval.

“Alastor, you _are_ aware, of course, the Yule Ball is about to start?”

Both his natural and his magical eyes were fixed on Madam Hooch, unable to look away. “I should have put more effort into this, shouldn’t I?”

“You probably should have.” For all her admonishments, there was laughter in her voice. “Now I feel ridiculously over-dressed.”

“There are a thousand words that could describe you, Rolanda. Neither _ridiculous_ nor _over-dressed_ are among them.”

Edging away, an elated Albus hastened to join the rest of his colleagues, most of whom had applied themselves to the task of memorising the layout of the tables, so as to guide the guests to their seats. It was fascinating to observe their choices of finery. Sober and sophisticated, Septima Vector had opted for a dark skirt suit with a geometric motive along the hems. Pomona Sprout had come in a long butter yellow dress adorned with a beaded clutch purse. Both Poppy Pomfrey and Bathsheda Babbling looked festive yet comfortable in their formal dress robes, and so did Minerva, who had a great liking for soft tartan fabrics—she had jokingly confessed once she did not care for any clothes that could restrict her from running. The youngest member of the staff was a sight to steal one’s breath away. In her royal blue Nigerian dress and headwrap, both of which were embroidered with gold and beads and balanced out by a red necklace, Aurora could have been a queen. Even Snape and Flitwick could not help but do a double take in passing. While the Potions Master did not feel the event warranted a change from his day-to-day clothes, Filius had donned a suit, as true lovers of classical music were wont to do.

A careful glance revealed a lonely figure by one of the Christmas trees. Albus mistook her for Sybill at first, only to realise this was Charity Burbage. There was sheen to her plum dress with sharp shoulders and a puffy skirt, and her blond hair had been teased into an ample mass of curls. It could be a trick of the light, but something about her features had changed. Albus assumed she was channelling the style of a Muggle fashion movement. Be it as it may, she appeared so sad and forlorn that he stepped towards her, determined to engage her in a conversation. Sadly, at that very instant, the clock struck eight, and Minerva hurried to open the doors.

It was a fancy and colourful crowd that poured in with much chatter, sending awed looks across the Great Hall. Olympe Maxime and Igor Karkaroff promptly joined Albus at the top table, followed by Ludo Bagman and, against all expectations, Percy Weasley. The young man had not forgotten their altercation of late—when their gazes crossed, his smug expression faltered.

“M-Mr Crouch is indisposed, professor,” he explained, hitching up the sleeves of his navy robes. “He left me in charge.”

He was granted a cool greeting. “Welcome, Mr Weasley.”

Under the teachers’ directions, the guests did not delay in gaining their seats, and soon, to the general applause, Professor McGonagall led the champions in. First marched Fleur Delacour, proud and resplendent in her silver dress and accompanied by Roger Davies. Albus felt pleased by her choice—he would not have guessed she had searched for a partner at Hogwarts.

The next couple was even more unanticipated: a well-groomed Viktor Krum, dressed in a classic suit like the rest of his classmates, was lending his arm to Miss Granger. She was lovely to look upon and visibly excited at this change from her study routine—in this, Albus could relate.

Cedric Diggory had come with a young girl from Ravenclaw, Cho Chang. Witnessing romance between two distinct Houses always lifted the headmaster’s spirits, and this was, without a doubt, a romance—the pretty girl was leaning onto her date with a sense of familiarity; they were perfectly at ease with each other.

At the end of the procession walked Harry, a head shorter than the rest of the champions and so endearing in his emerald robes that Albus could not contain a chuckle. Parvati Patil from Gryffindor was his partner. The old wizard did not recall ever seeing them together, and this friendship puzzled him a little. By all means, they formed a sweet couple: the girl was like a rosebud, ready to bloom into a beautiful flower in only a few years.

As they converged around the top table, the applause died down, giving way to the rustle of hundreds of printed menus. As scrumptious and elaborate as the listed dishes were, Albus had to restrain himself, for he would be eating another dinner after midnight, and it was advisable that he partake of a single dish and skip pudding altogether—not the least because of the dancing ahead. In the end, he settled for pork chops. So did Ludo—the only person brave enough to launch into small talk despite Madame Maxime’s curtness. By their side, Karkaroff was peering at the other tables, unable so far to locate Aurora. As for Percy, he had fully dedicated himself to a lengthy self-account for Harry’s benefit.

“… and then we had the tournament to arrange, and the aftermath of the Cup to deal with—that revolting Skeeter woman buzzing around—no, poor man, he’s having a well-earned, quiet Christmas. I’m just glad he knew he had someone he could rely upon to take his place.”

The young man’s monologue had no end, and no one could blame Harry for letting his mind wander. Between spoonfuls of goulash, the boy’s green eyes came to rest longingly on Cho Chang, though she only had attention for her companion.

So this was what was going on. It certainly elucidated the mystery of Miss Patil’s presence and the fact that she had been invited as a substitute once Harry had lost his chance at going with his coveted date. Albus felt sorry for the children, especially the girl: she deserved to be noticed and admired for being herself. This did not promise to be an enjoyable evening for either of them.

As if to thicken the plot, Fleur Delacour kept gazing resentfully at the back of Mr Diggory’s head while indulging in a tirade that left no inch of Hogwarts uncriticised. No matter how loudly she complained or how artfully she employed the Veela charm, the boy never turned around. This was not the case for Mr Davies, who was becoming giddier by the minute—some wizards were more affected by the Veela allure than others.

“Ouais, pfff,” the girl concluded with another scowl at Cedric, “zis place doesn’t ‘old a candle to Beauxbatons. A beeg let-down, bon ben voilà quoi.”

Viktor Krum, at least, was enjoying himself: his interest in Hermione was genuine and vexed no one.

_Well done, Miss Granger_ , Albus thought. However thoroughly Karkaroff sought to brainwash his students and set them against their British hosts, youth and attraction were more powerful than slander. All things considered, Viktor Krum was a decent young wizard, having fallen for a clever girl without the slightest concern for her blood status.

“Ve have a castle also,” he was saying, “not as big as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking. Ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes…”

At this, Karkaroff stopped craning his neck and fixed the boy with a piercing look. His false burst of laughter did little to conceal his alarm.

“Now, now, Viktor, don’t go giving avay anyzing else now, or your charming friend vill know exactly vhere to find us.”

Considering his efforts from that same morning to lure Aurora to Durmstrang, this was a feeble excuse at best; besides, Albus had already travelled to the Northern school once. No, Karkaroff was most likely worried about the Ministry officials’ reaction, should they find out how much he had stolen from the establishment he had sworn to protect. The occasion to needle him was too good to ignore.

“Igor, all this secrecy… one would almost think you didn’t want visitors,” Albus said jovially.

“Vell, Dumbledore, ve are all protective of our private domains, are ve not?” came a verbose reply. “Do ve not jealously guard ze halls of learning zat have been entrusted to us? Are ve not right to be proud zat ve alone know our school’s secrets, and right to protect zem?”

_Jealously guard_ them indeed, like a magpie perched over a nest full of stolen trinkets.

“Oh, I would never dream of assuming I know all Hogwarts’ secrets, Igor. Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong turning on the way to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I have never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of chamber pots. When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that the room had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it. Possibly it is only accessible at five-thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon—or when the seeker has an exceptionally full bladder.”

Not a word of this story was true—Albus had invented it for the simple pleasure of seeing an uptight Percy Weasley bristle at this use of toilet humour at table. Harry laughed, though, and the headmaster sent him a wink.

“Now that you mention the _halls of learning_ ,” he went on slyly, “I’ve never forgotten the dining hall at Durmstrang. It offers the most spectacular panoramic view of the mountains, and its wall encrusted with diamonds must be unique in the world. If I had such an ingenious system of illumination at my disposal, I would never mind the short daylight hours of winter.”

The bait worked: Viktor Krum frowned at him, confused.

“A vall vith diamonds? Vot vall? There vere never any diamonds in the dining hall.”

The next second, he had to return to his meal and speak no more: his headmaster’s expression was much too threatening. Albus’s mirth passed as quickly as it had risen. As comical as it was to imagine Karkaroff sneaking into a nocturnal dining hall and using a knife to pry the diamonds off the wall, the vandalised and impoverished state of Durmstrang was nothing to laugh about. Whoever was chosen to direct the school after the Ukrainian would have an immense amount of work to do. Albus was grateful to know Giacomo meant to apply to the board of governors.

Within half an hour, dinner was over, and it was time to clear the Great Hall and prepare the stage for the Weird Sisters’ performance. Maybe it was old-fashioned of him, but a conventional orchestra playing the great waltzes of the previous century would have pleased the wizard most. Not that this particular genre of music was not inspiring, he had to admit, as he and Madame Maxime joined the champions and their partners on the dance floor. She still was in no hurry to converse with him, but she danced with earnest grace, her moves so controlled that the lavender silk of her gown draped around her at every turn. When the song ended, numerous couples surrounded them, and they met the band’s introduction with cheers and applause. Bowing to Olympe, Albus excused himself; he had to find Aurora, his next partner. He saw the young witch part from Alastor and advance towards him, beautiful like a painting.

"Headmaster, if I may, you look splendid tonight," she complimented.

"Thank you, dear. Not half as splendid as you do." The Weird Sisters struck a faster tune, causing the entire dance floor to come to life. "Thank you for your thoughtful present—it's an exquisite and unique lamp."

"As long as it serves you, you have nothing to thank me for," she assured him. "And let me thank you in turn for your kind words. I’ve made this dress myself."

He studied the sparkling beads and golden ornaments on her outfit with admiration. "It resembles stars and comets blazing in the midnight sky. Did you know that according to a Navajo legend, the stars of the Milky Way are footprints left by the spirits and deities travelling between the realms?"

Aurora offered him a wide smile.

"Perhaps they are footprints indeed. You never cease to amaze me, headmaster: very few wizards around here can call themselves experts on Native American beliefs. I have heard if it, I’ll admit, but I am blessed to have been taught by extraordinary witches and wizards. Speaking of the stars, are you sure you wouldn’t like to come to my little seminar around the witching hour? Quite a few students have signed up, even Miss Johnson and Mr Zabini, I’m delighted to say. Naturally, there is no helping the rivalry between the Houses, but I’m truly happy to see that even Gryffindors and Slytherins can enjoy something in common. After all, while upholding the honour of one’s House is a matter of pride, there is so much more to each and every student, don’t you think?"

"Absolutely. Under different circumstances, I would happily discard all formality and join the students at your special Christmas lesson; only, I need to leave Hogwarts after the ball. I’m hopeful we will have more occasions for such memorable seminars." Albus paused, growing serious. "There is a question I would like to ask you, and it will doubtless sound very unusual. I’ve been wondering whether it might be possible for me to meet mambo Lucille. Should she be willing to grant me an audience, I would gladly go to Haiti."

The young witch’s eyes widened. She nearly stumbled in surprise and then blushed.

"Oh. I… I am not sure. I suppose she is open to welcoming anyone, really, but… this isn’t what you really are asking about, is it?"

Her guess was accurate, and as soon as she voiced it, he understood. Hordes of people, wizards and Muggles alike, were bound to come to mambo Lucille on a daily basis, begging for or even demanding her help. Aside from being notorious for her mastery of a brand of magic only few could perform, she had also rendered her home accessible. Imploring her help presented a delicate challenge.

"You are right." Albus bit his lip in thought. "The candles you so kindly gave me are what inspired this idea—the purifying Light magic they contain is unlike anything I know. It would mean the world to me if mambo Lucille consented to teach me this spell—I feel it’s my only hope for helping those I love.”

Aurora said nothing for a moment but followed his lead through a vibrant throng of students.

"It must be serious," she deduced. "The spell contained in those candles is, in essence, similar to what Necromancers use: the bokors, the shadow folk. The only difference is that they call upon the Dark deities and pay the price in blood. The candles charmed by mambo Lucille serve as a beacon for the Light forces. Contrary to the popular yet misguided belief that _evil_ is, somehow, more potent than _good_ , this enchantment is one of great strength, and I believe mambo Lucille is one of the few witches powerful enough to conjure it."

The velvet black eyes met the sky-blue ones, and the young woman’s gaze softened.

"Your familiar is a phoenix," she went on. "It makes me think you have it in you too, except you have never practiced Sakrémaji. Also, there are many who seek to take advantage of mambo Lucille and the arts she teaches, so you need to be careful when you make your request. Of course, I can send her an owl—and mambo Lucille is not difficult to find at all as she too is the headmistress of her own school—but when the time comes, I only ask that you be truthful. From my side, I nurture deep and sincere admiration for you both, but the world has not been kind to mambo Lucille."

The song came to an end. After letting the witch make one last twirl, Albus kissed her hand.

"I promise to do as you say: I will be nothing but candid with mambo Lucille. And whatever the outcome, I'm forever in your debt, Aurora, dear."

She squeezed his fingers. "I believe your intentions are pure, headmaster. Otherwise, I wouldn't have made such a promise."

Leaving her in Ludo Bagman’s company, Albus went to pour himself a sip of water; their heart-to-heart had cheered him up considerably. Not a wink later, he caught a glimpse of Karkaroff, who was staring at the witch, his posture positively hungry. Something had to be done, and fast—given their full dance cards, he and Ludo could not protect her for long, and Alastor was bound to disappear with Rolanda halfway through the evening. Only one solution presented itself. He sought out Snape.

“Severus, if you don’t intend to dance, will you do me a favour? Could you please distract Karkaroff and keep him out of the Great Hall for as long as possible? You can ask me for anything in return.”

Stationed in a quiet corner, the Potions Master arched an eyebrow. The plea seemed to have amused him.

“As you wish, headmaster.”

He was as good as his word: the Ukrainian vanished from sight and was still away three songs later. Reassured, Albus danced with Poppy Pomfrey, having partnered both Minerva and Pomona. The continuous exertion left him out of breath; as soon as a break ensued, all he could do was reach the nearest table and down an entire glass of water. His legs ached a little.

The female student from Durmstrang happened to be standing nearby. She was dressed in a boyish style and was speaking to her date, an open bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky in hand.

“—nothing here is impressive. But the barman of Hog’s Head is nice. His pub is gonna be open on New Year’s Eve.”

"Go easy on zat, Yyhely,” the boy advised. “If Karkaroff sees you, he’ll make you clean ze deck all over again."

She grimaced, her stance somewhat aggressive all of a sudden.

"Last time, it was because of _you_ —"

Albus tried not to gape at his brother’s admirer, who had found Hog’s Head more hospitable than Hogwarts. It was Ludo Bagman who diverted his attention, striding over to pour himself a drink.

“No rest for the wicked, eh?”

“It has been the case at every dance I’ve yet been to,” the headmaster agreed. “The number of ladies in attendance always surpasses the number of gentlemen.”

“And it’s only the two of us and Hagrid.” The commentator peered over the students’ heads. “I can understand good old Moody not dancing, but what is young Percy doing over there? And where has Severus gone to? Two perfectly fit buggers, who could give us a hand. The ladies can hardly invite centaurs for partners.”

The idea made Albus chortle. Sure enough, Percy Weasley was absorbed in a passionate argument with his twin brothers—all he had done so far was lecture the other guests and brag about his promotion to anyone who would listen.

“You are right—while Severus is busy, Mr Weasley has no excuse for avoiding the dance floor. Will you please encourage him, Ludo? He won’t say no to you.”

Once Bagman walked away, Albus called Lompy the house-elf and shared a few instructions, as well as his compliments and thanks. This done, he was free to approach his guest of honour, who was quietly enjoying tea and cake at one of the side tables. This guest was his mother-in-law.

Even if Bathilda Bagshot was merely Gellert’s great-aunt—not a close one at that—she was his only living relative, and Albus viewed her as family. Aged and frail, she was wearing a lacy white dress purchased at the start of the century. Her matching hat and fan were in place, as essential to her attire as the gloves that covered her small yet surprisingly strong hands.

“Albus, my dear.”

“I’m happy to see you, Bathilda. Thank you for accepting my invite.” He kissed her cheek and sat down beside her. “How have you been? Are you comfortable here?”

“Quite.” The witch swept the Great Hall with a critical eye. “It’s a good party, Albus. The house-elves have been working hard, I see.”

“Thank you. Your opinion means more than anyone else’s.”

It was no flattery but the truth. His unuttered words did not escape Bathilda’s notice, though; she regarded him shrewdly.

“The French dame is dissatisfied, is she?” She waved her hand in disdain. “Don’t even think of getting upset over those people. She’s quite the saint, that one—you should have seen the way she was bamboozling that blundering Hagrid half an hour ago.”

The gamekeeper and Madame Maxime had indeed danced together earlier in the evening. Nothing about it struck the headmaster as noteworthy. “What do you mean?”

“Albus, please,” she bit out impatiently, “look at her, and look at him. Individuals who are this different don’t mix well, not even among half-giants. As far as she is concerned, the only saving grace your precious Hagrid possesses is his complete inability to keep a secret. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have deemed him good enough to wipe her shoes.”

After a century of friendship, her direct and often scathing manner of expressing herself neither shocked nor offended Albus. He had learned not to argue; humour was the best recourse in cases such as this.

“Don’t let her hear you,” he suggested with a smile. “I believe it is we who are intolerant and narrow-minded from Madame Maxime’s standpoint.”

“Is that so?” Bathilda smirked, fanning herself. “Ah, but have you noticed what a selection of students she has brought with her? Two part-Veela and a few attractive teenagers from various backgrounds. If she is as tolerant as she claims, where are the half-hags, half-elves, and half-goblins? Or does she only admit _pretty_ half-breeds to her school?”

This was an observation he had not considered. With a triumphant smile, the witch cast about the Hall.

“Which one is the headmaster of Durmstrang?”

“It’s the man with the goatee, dressed in white furs. He isn’t here right now.”

“Oh, that buffoon. I saw him. Good to know my great-nephew’s beloved school has the worthy representation it deserves.”

Her sarcasm notwithstanding, Bathilda could not stop herself from giving Albus a curious side-look. “How is he?”

“He is doing better. I’m going to see him after the ball. We’ll have a meal, and I’ll stay the night.” The wizard’s expression brightened with reminiscence. “I asked him what he would like for Christmas. He said he would love to teach me how to astral-project.”

This answer of Gellert’s was one of the most romantic things he had ever heard. His mother-in-law clearly disagreed.

“You should know better,” she declared, unimpressed, swishing her fan for good measure. “There are so many people who love and respect you. And all you want to do with your leisure time is waste it on that good-for-nothing rabble-rouser. One who left you when you needed him most.”

“Only because I asked him to leave.” Albus drew a breath and then exhaled. As much as he would have liked to bring her round, it was pointless to attempt it: for numerous reasons that had to do with the older generation of the Grindelwalds, she had never been fond of her great-nephew, and she never would be. “Gellert loves me as I love him. We’ve been through this before, Bathilda.”

“Oh, well, I had to try.” She reached to adjust his sleeve, her gesture affectionate and irritated in equal measure. “You are, after all, rather bright in other matters.”

The band began playing a slow, peaceful tune. With a kiss on the witch’s gloved fingers, Albus stood up. “Will you dance with me?”

“Why not? If you promise to keep me distracted from this monstrosity they call _music_ nowadays.”

They gently swayed to the song. Afterwards, Bathilda needed a rest, and Albus led her to her seat before resuming his duty towards his colleagues. For the last dance on the list, he asked Charity, who had found little joy in the event, plainly wishing her fiancé had been present. In spite of this, she did not decline the old wizard’s offer and even smiled when he praised her outfit.

“Thank you, headmaster. It’s the latest Muggle fashion—very flamboyant and colourful.”

It was true that her makeup combined vibrant shades: her cheeks were tinged with berry pink, her lips were a pearlescent lilac, and patches of yellow and blue covered her eyelids. Even her dress had a metallic shine to it: it felt unyielding under his palm, not unlike a curtain.

“I’m very sorry Andrew couldn’t come,” he said sincerely. “I know how important it was for you to spend the evening together. Unfortunately, we cannot go back in time or change the rules, but… can you see this tree?”

He indicated the prettiest one of the twelve Christmas trees stationed along the Great Hall.

“I have asked the house-elves to deliver it to your house with some dishes from tonight’s feast. It’s not much, I understand. Only a piece of magic to bring home to your other half.”

She oohed, astonished by the gesture, and then leaned in to embrace him, her demeanour thawing out.

“Thank you, headmaster. I… I know it wasn’t really allowed. Thank you for this. Andrew will love it.”

“Then let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”

He hugged her and watched her hurry away. An elf had already Apparated to remove the tree from its spot.

The hour had come to say goodbye to Bathilda and extend courtesies towards Ludo, Percy, and Madame Maxime—Karkaroff still remained absent. Not without regret, the children were leaving, as perky as they had been before dinner. For his part, all Albus felt was profound contentment at the knowledge the evening had been a success. He found Snape in the entrance hall, the young man’s indolent eyes lingering on the stragglers.

“I owe you an immense favour.” The headmaster drew nearer. “Thank you, Severus. I’m sorry we couldn’t talk earlier. What is it you wanted to tell me?”

The Potions Master uncrossed his arms and hitched up his left sleeve. For the briefest of instants, something black slithered on his sallow skin.

“It’s coming back. Karkaroff’s too, stronger and clearer than ever.”

This was not news, not truly, but Snape had no means of knowing it. Albus sighed.

“He works fast.”

There was no denying that Voldemort’s progress over the last few months had been impressive in a deeply frightening way.

“Karkaroff's Mark is becoming darker too,” the other wizard reiterated pensively. “He is panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell. Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns.”

Had the Ukrainian explicitly confessed this much to the one person he half-trusted, or was it pure speculation? After all, bravado was one of Karkaroff’s more prominent traits.

“Does he? And are you tempted to join him?”

“No. I am not such a coward.”

Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies came tottering from the grotto. Where exactly they were headed, Albus could not tell; he would have expected the boy to escort his date to the Beauxbatons carriage.

“No, you are a braver man by far than Igor Karkaroff.” Suddenly, a wave of weariness washed over him. “You know, I sometimes think we Sort too soon…"

With a nod and a wish of a good night, he went upstairs, already repenting his spontaneous words. He had not meant to offend Severus; besides, when all was said and done, he nurtured only deep respect for Slytherins. His lover was one, and so was Bathilda. Nay, what frustrated him was the prejudice surrounding every single life choice one undertook. His mother-in-law, for example, had never consented to offer her great-nephew the benefit of a doubt; the same way, Snape would not be persuaded to try to accept Harry in his heart. And yet, both of them were sharp-witted intellectuals, and both were capable of love.

Back in his quarters, Albus freshened up again, changed into more comfortable clothes, and inspected the box of food a house-elf had brought to him all the way from Bavaria. Everything was set.

The guard who was on duty at Nurmengard appeared too sleepy to do more than glance at the portion of roast goose, the bread dumplings, the red cabbage, and the generous slice of Stollen nestled in the Englishman’s basket; it was cursorily that he ran a Dark Detector over the bottles of beverages as well. On the table by the wall, one could discern the remnants of his own similar dinner spread over a sheet of newspaper. Somehow, he was not sleepy enough to deprive himself of a jeering remark on the late hour of the feast Albus was about to share with Gellert, but it mattered not. Much more important was the fact that he never detected the piece of chalk and the tiny sponge hidden at the very bottom of the basket. Calmly, Albus proceeded towards the topmost cell; a wide smile lit his face at the sight of his beloved.

“Frohe Weihnachten, Schatz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing Olympe Maxime’s character, we set out to follow the book version, which portrayed her as a chic and sophisticated lady, though not completely devoid of a certain sense of superiority. It was sad to see her turned into a source of comic relief in the movie and stripped of what rendered her unique. Bathilda’s harsh comment is meant to bring out this difference while showing that, as good-hearted as Hagrid was, he had little in common with the French headmistress. Thank you for reading!


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